Here Comes the Snide
by Lampito
Summary: It's a wedding! And the Winchesters are invited. Bobby's giving the bride away, Dean's on make-up advice, and Sam will make polite chitchat with the groom's family and see that they don't find out that he's about to marry a werewolf. Then they just have to stop whatever's haunting the building. And explain 'chicken fillets' to Castiel. Could it get worse? Um, yes...
1. Prologue

Okay, no idea WTF this plot bunny thinks it's doing exactly - it's been ruminating and hiding, and tonight it finally popped out and dictated something. Apparently, the prologue matters. Where is it going? I don't know, but in the Jimiverse, just getting something written down can encourage the plot bunny to be more forthcoming. So, I'll delete this one if it doesn't go anywhere, but let's give the bunny a chance. I think his name might be Bruce.

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not mine. If they were, I'd let the Denizens borrow them.

**TITLE: **Here Comes the Snide

**SUMMARY:** It's a wedding! And the Winchesters are invited. Bobby will be giving the bride away, Dean will be on make-up advice, and Sam, well, he'll be making polite conversation with the groom's family, and making sure that they don't find out that their darling boy is about to marry a werewolf. Oh, and that he's a werewolf, too. Oh, and they just have to stop whatever's haunting the building. And explain to Cas that 'chicken fillets' are fake bra fillers, and real bits of dead chicken are not needed. Could it get any worse? Actually, since you ask, yes...

**RATING:** T. Because gagging Dean for the entire story would be kinky, but make dialogue difficult. Maybe even T+ for the first bit, because the prologue contains a VERY VERY BAD WORD. You have been warned.

**BLAME:** Lies with the Denizens, natch, those eebil, shameless and relentless breeders of plot bunnies. One day, somebody will develop a strain of plot bunny myxomatosis, and then we'll see who's laughing, ha ha ha! HA HA HA! BWAHAHAHAHA! Ahem.

* * *

**Prologue**

_Bargara, Queensland Australia, December 1991_

It wasn't exactly a Hunter's pub, but a lot of Hunters passed through. Jeff didn't mind them, though – they drank a lot, and kept to themselves, rarely making trouble, and according to some unspoken law, never brought their brand of trouble with them. As a rule, they were his least disruptive customers.

Bargara was in sugar cane country, though, so it saw a lot of seasonal workers during the cutting season. They worked hard, played hard, and drank hard. Unfortunately, they weren't as reserved as Hunters. He kept two weapons under the bar, a hefty baton (a souvenir of his days as a cop) and a shotgun (not a souvenir from his days on the force, but purchased from an old acquaintance off the books), although with his size, he'd never had to draw it.

The bloke who walked in from the humid evening was familiar, as was the kid who trailed in behind him. He nodded in greeting, bought a beer for himself and lemon squash for the kid (who probably could've passed for eighteen, and God knew that Hunters could get hold of convincing fake IDs, but many preferred not to risk a run-in with the law over such a small matter, when a simple under-age drinking charge could escalate into a vehicle search and lead to some very awkward questions), then retired to a table in a dark corner.

Ten minutes later, another guy arrived and drifted over to join them, where they exchanged perfunctory greetings. At a word from the first – the father – the kid got up, and drifted over towards the dimly lit pool tables, idly racking the balls, and beginning some practice.

Business picked up as the sun and the temperature went down, and Jeff saw a flash of silver at the table where the two Hunters were talking. Only an ex-cop would've seen money exchange hands as some agreement was reached, and more beer was called for.

His invisible whiskers twitched as three biker types came in, already swaggering with drink – they'd probably been thrown out of somewhere else. Not authentic 1%er outlaws, merely wannabe tough guys with their pay packets just collected, looking for something to drink, something to fight, and something to fuck. The bought a couple of jugs, and headed for the pool tables, where two of them started a game on the second table, and the third decided he wanted to practice.

"Hey," he said to the kid, who was lining up a shot off the edge, "Piss off, the grown-ups want to play."

"Guess that rules you out, then," said the kid mildly, not even looking up, and making the shot.

The biker watched the cue ball bounce, rebound, then hit the coloured ball, which rolled to the pocket and drop in. "Think you can play, huh?" He smiled unpleasantly. "Are you any good?"

"No." The kid straightened up, and stared back. "I'm fucking good."

"And modest, too," chortled one of the other bikers. Jeff noticed that the kid's father was sitting calmly, but to the trained eye, he was watching like a lion watching a hyena stray near his cub.

Deliberately, the biker reached out and grabbed the cue ball as it rolled towards the black. "Fancy a game then, smartarse?" the biker asked.

"No," replied the kid immediately. "I don't give lessons for free, I'll win your money, then you'll get pissed off, and start behaving like a dickhead, and Jeff doesn't do 'dickhead' very well, and it will just be unpleasant for everybody."

"Oooooooooh," went the other two bikers, clearly amused.

Smiling unpleasantly, the biker took out his wallet, and slapped down a twenty. The kid went back to the table, spoke briefly to the father, and returned with four fifties. A brief flash of doubt passed over the biker's face.

"I told you, I charge for lessons," the kid reiterated. "I'm not a fucking charity." There was a pause for effect. "I really don't think you should match it. I'll win, and take your money. Why don't you just cover your uncertainty by saying something like, 'There's no fun in beating a little shit like you', and walk away?"

Jeff sighed inwardly; no bloke on a chopped Harley was going to walk away from a goading like that from a kid who'd only just finished high school.

With a predatory sneer, the biker pulled out two hundred. "Toss you for the break," he growled.

Jeff got on with the business of the bar, and shifted his piece of pipe to be close to hand. He'd seen the youngster play before – there was no hustle, no deception, just the blunt reality twisted into irresistible reverse psychology. I'm better than you. You'll lose. Don't waste your money trying to prove me wrong.

Watching without watching (a skill every barman, let alone an ex-cop, had to develop), Jeff thought that the game was in fact remarkably even, until the older Hunter stood up. The kid saw him gesture, then knocked the remaining balls off the table one after the other, having just been toying with the biker, apparently for amusement.

The money disappeared into the kid's pocket. "I did warn you," it was said with a resigned sigh. "I always tell people, but they never listen. It's because I'm just a kid, I s'pose."

It happened quickly: the biker realised he'd been screwed over by a kid, and his mates were laughing at him. His face screwed up into an angry scowl. He reached back under his vest, and his hand came back with a knife.

Someone shouted, a woman screamed, and the next thing anyone knew, the biker was slammed against the wall, and screaming louder than the woman.

"You stabbed me!" he howled, "The little cunt stabbed me!"

Jeff was over the bar before the obscenity cut the air, pushing the kid out of the way...

The biker wasn't stabbed. But he was pinned to the wall, his vest and shirt skewered with his own knife.

"Calm down, shithead," he snapped, pulling the weapon free, "You're not bloody stabbed, you're just stuck. You can collect this," he flipped the knife, "Before you leave. And if you want to do that under your own steam, rather than with my boot in your arse, you will calm the fuck down, and behave yourself, understand?"

"That little shit cheated me," the biker muttered sullenly.

"I distinctly heard that little shit warn you that you'd get your arse whupped," Jeff growled, "But look, that little shit is leaving now anyway," he turned to the kid, "Aren't you, little shit?"

"Sorry about the wall, Jeff," the kid said sheepishly. "But fair dinkum, he started it..."

The older Hunter cleared his throat pointedly, and the kid trotted quickly to his side. With a gruff nod from the father, they were gone, headed back to the pickup where a dog waited in the bed.

"What have I told you about shitting in your own nest?" growled the older Hunter.

"Sorry, Dad," replied the kid. "But he did start it."

"I don't care if he kicked over your sandcastle!" snapped the father, "What the hell was that stunt with the knife?"

"You'd have yelled blue murder if I'd stuck it in his leg," came the heated retort, "Which would've been easier, actually."

"Oh, bugger," the father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, you can't go provoking blokes like that, not this close to home. Jeff lets us all use his place. Don't make trouble for him."

"I didn't!" the teenager protested. "I warned him! Jeff heard me."

"You know exactly what you did," the father growled. "Don't do that again."

"Fine," it was sighed as only a thwarted teenager can manage, "Ruin my fun, and sabotage my earning power." But the kid brightened up. "How much did I get for my ammo?"

With a shake of his head, he extracted a wad of cash from a pocket. His kid's eyes lit up. "Told you my stuff is good."

"Your grandmother would be proud of you," he said gently. "So, this, plus four hundred..."

"Hang on." The kid fished a greasy wallet out of a pocket . "Let me check."

Len Shepherd let out a groan. "Oh, fuck me, Ronnie, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"He won't complain," she dismissed his complaint with the certainty of a seventeen-year-old, "No bloke like that is going to go to the cops and say, a girl beat me at pool, almost stabbed me after I pulled a knife on her, then nicked my wallet."

"If she wasn't alive when you were born, I'd say you were your grandmother reincarnated," muttered Len. "So, that should be enough for that Ruger you were looking at..."

"Nuh-uh," she said firmly, "This is going in the uni fund. You can buy me the Ruger for Christmas."

"In your dreams," scoffed her father.

"Okay then, for my birthday."

"You really are a little shit, aren't you?" he grinned fondly.

"I learned form the best," she beamed at him, "Which is why..."

Ronnie paused, blinked, and the smile fell off her face.

"Ronnie?" pressed her father. "What is it?"

"A disturbance in the Force," she muttered, quickly pulling a knife from her boot.

"Mum?" he asked, moving closer.

"Yep." Ronnie dragged the knife across her arm, then quickly scribbled a symbol on the hood of the truck, muttering to herself as she did. "Shit, she's looking for both of us..."

She slammed her hand down on the blood symbol, grabbed her father's hand and banged it down on top of her own.

They stood there for nearly a minute, until Ronnie let out a breath, and nodded to her father to remove her hand. "She doesn't trust you any more than she trusts me."

"Well, we can truthfully say, without word of a lie, that not a single drop of alcohol passed your lips," her father sounded relieved. His wife Claire was one of the most powerful white witches on the Eastern seaboard, if not the country. She'd tried to instruct her oldest daughter in The Craft, but Ronnie had no real interest, and from an early age had seen the benefit of letting her mother think that she had no real talent, either. She certainly didn't want her mother to know that she had always been able to tell when Claire was scrying for her firstborn child, and possibly also her husband.

"You know, it might help your Hunting if you did learn a bit more," Len suggested.

"You mean, it might stop Mum from hounding you about training me up," Ronnie grinned. "I know enough to dodge her snooping. And I can unwind a curse." She climbed into the truck. "What's more important, being able to pull a rabbit out of a hat, or decapitate a kianpraty at ten paces?"

"You are a little smartarse, you know," Len started the engine, and Diesel woofed from the bed. "For Christ's sake, don't let your mother see the money you've got."

"We'll tell her it's for my ammo," Ronnie waved a hand dismissively, "She has no idea what well-cast silver rounds are worth."

The truck pulled out of the pub parking lot.

"So, uni," said Len casually. "You know we don't have the money for it, Ronnie."

"I'm going," said Ronnie firmly. "I've applied for scholarships at UQ, ANU and Melbourne. Mr Tytler, the science co-ordinator, says I'll shit it in."

"He said that?" Len raised his eyebrows.

"Er, not those exact words," admitted Ronnie. "What he did say was that an engineering faculty will fall on a female candidate with my results with inarticulate cries of joy." She paused. "I think he means that as a good thing."

"And what will you live on?" pressed Len. "It's a long way, even from Brisbane, to come home for dinner."

"I'll work something out," Ronnie shrugged. "Students are meant to live on two-minute noodles, Vegemite toast and beer." She smirked smugly. "I can always play pool."

"Jesus, Ronnie..."

"Dad, it'll work out," she grinned. "And think what I could do with it! Chemical engineering! What if I could find out why silver damages werewolves or shapeshifters? Or why dead blood kills vampires? Or holy water hurts demons? Think what Hunters could do with that sort of info!"

"Well, I can see that having a business called 'Shepherd and Daughter' just isn't going to happen," remarked Len philosophically.

"I can still work for you, during the holidays," she told him, "I can weld better than a fourth-year apprentice. And my rates will be very reasonable."

"If you don't have your first class ticket, your rates will be whatever I say they are," her father replied serenely.

"No biggie," she said airily, "I'll just go to the pub, and play pool. I'll be eighteen in a couple of months, so I'll be allowed to do that all by myself..."

"Saints preserve us," muttered Len, shooting a sideways glance at his little girl, who really wasn't at all little any more. Never had been 'little', really... "Just don't drop out, find Nirvana and go and live on a commune somewhere. Oh, and if you present me with a grandchild before you turn twenty-one, I will end you. "

Ronnie burst out laughing. "No worries there, Dad," she was genuinely amused, "No bloke is gunna want a sheila who looks more like a guy than he does!"

_If only I could truly believe that, _Len thought,_ But I can't help but worry that, one day, there will be a man who sees past the outside, and sees that smile, dear God, daughter mine, that smile will take some poor bastard's breath away, and then he'll take my little girl, my wingwoman, away, and how did you grow up like this?..._

"Well, do me a favour," he begged, "Tell your mother when I'm not there."

"Chicken," Ronnie mumbled, taking out the biker's wallet to count her pickings. "I will come back, you know," she told him, "I'll come back, and I'll still be a Hunter. I'll be a better Hunter. And I'll have your back."

"Good to know," he smiled.

"Oh, and if you do a runner when I tell Mum, I'll tell her how much you spent on that shotgun."

"Jeff's right, you are a little shit."

"Yeah, but I'm your little shit, Daddy dearest."

"I suddenly feel old."

"You are old."

"I'm middle-aged!"

"Which translates as: old."

"It'll happen to you one day, too, you know."

"Yep," Ronnie looked out the window, watching her future unroll before her with the scenery, "I intend to stay alive long enough to get old. That's the plan."

* * *

What the hell is Bruce the plot bunny up to? Feed him, and find out! He says...there will be bickering Winchesters next chapter, bickering about... nudity...


	2. Chapter 1

Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse may recognise the setting: this takes place while the Winchesters are undertaking the Hunt described in 'The Consultant', during which Dean does a stint as an Acting Cupid (complete with feathery flying pants), Sam does a stint as an acting Acting Cupid (with no pants at all), and Temeriel the Cupid (no pants) tries to learn about human customs, idioms and dietary practices (no idea)...

* * *

**Chapter One**

_Montana_

He sat in the cab of his truck, looked down at the small box in his hand, and told himself to fucking grow a pair.

It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing. He'd served overseas, been shot at by people who wanted him dead, survived a werewolf attack, survived being a werewolf, survived meeting the Winchesters, survived being grabbed by assholes who wanted to skin him alive for his pelt, and he'd done it all without flinching, but this...

He was, at heart, a bit of a traditionalist. It had disappointed him that he had been unable to contact Ronnie's family, talk to her father – if he was still alive, Hunters rarely made it to the age he would have to be – and ask for his blessing. But Ronnie hoped her family thought her dead, and there was good reason for that, so he didn't even go looking, even if it broke his heart a little. In the end, he'd compromised by sneaking a peek at her cell then calling Ian, the guy who'd been her Hunt buddy for years after she arrived in the States. Ronnie stayed in contact with him, describing him as the big brother she never had – when Andrew introduced himself and said why he was calling, Ian had let out a huge, booming laugh, and told him to go for it.

He'd taken care with the ring he chose. It was a flat band, white gold – it looked beautifully silver, funnily enough – with the stones set into the band, flush with the surface, not a setting standing proud. It was plain, it was unassuming, it would never get in the way in a fight or catch on a weapon, and if she ever found out how much he'd spent she'd probably cut his throat...

_Time to man up, you frigging pussy_, Andrew scolded himself, getting out of the truck and marching to the house. Joni greeted him at the door, tail waving and tongue lolling.

"Ronnie!" he called, trying to keep his voice even, "There's something I gotta tell you... Ronnie?"

The only answer he got was a howl of laughter from the living room.

She was actually, literally, on the floor – he'd always thought that was just an internet acronym thing – screaming with hilarity.

"Dee," she wheezed, pointing up at the screen of the computer, "Dee... Dee... Dean Wee... hee hee hee hee hee heeeeeee!"

Bewildered, he checked the monitor.

It held a screen capture of Dean Winchester, wearing a pair of what looked like grey fluffy board shorts, and an expression suggesting that he would be less mortified to be stark naked.

A closer inspection showed that the shorts were not exactly fluffy; they were completely covered in soft, downy feathers.

Andrew found an amused smile breaking out on his own face. "What the hell are they Hunting?" he asked, "That means Dean Winchester, ladies' man and Living Sex God, has to wear a pair of pants covered in feathers?"

"He's, he's, he's," Ronnie gasped and hiccuped, getting to her feet, her voice reduced to a squeak, "He's doing a job as... an Acting Cupiiiiiiid..." she started to laugh again, and managed to hit the button, replaying the Skype conversation she'd had with the Winchesters earlier.

When it was finished, Andrew was also laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Joni barked happily, joining in the moment of shared amusement amongst her pack.

"Oh, oh, God," he wheezed, eventually getting control of himself, "Oh, God, the things Hunters have to do in the name of their work."

"Saving people, Hunting things, wearing feathery duds," Ronnie subsided to a giggle, "It's their family business, don't you know. Poor Jimi, though, he has to go to the vet, and pretend to have travel sickness. He doesn't like the think with the thermometer at all; he's the real hero."

"At least dogs get fed treats after they've been to the doctor," Andrew smiled down at Joni, and stroked her ears, "I haven't been offered a jelly bean for being a brave boy since I was about six."

"Men, such bloody sissies," she humphed in amusement, wiping her eyes then looking up at him. "Did you say you had something to tell me?"

His rallied courage deserted him, as he stared back, lost for words.

"Andrew?" her face and voice grew concerned. "You don't look so hot, mate, is something wrong?"

_I should've rehearsed this, _he told himself_, I should've thought up something to say, or found a poem or something, or, or, or anything, I should've worked out how to do this before I came charging in here..._

He opened his mouth, but words failed him.

So he didn't bother with them.

He took the box out of his pocket, opened it, handed it to her, and whuffed quietly.

_Den with me._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

_South Dakota, several days later_

"How can you still be so cranky?" Dean demanded, shoving a handful of corn chips into his mouth as he drove. "Job's done, demons are thwarted, happy couple are together, their descendants will do wonderful things for humanity, I call that a win, bro."

"I'm not cranky!" snapped Sam peevishly, "I'm just... "

"The biggest prude this side of the Vatican?" suggested Dean helpfully.

"Look, it just... startled me, okay?" Sam shot back. "When we went looking for you, and Cas found your car, I didn't know what sort of a resort it was."

"I woulda thought it would be kinda obvious," shrugged Dean.

"There was no signage outside to indicate what it was!" Sam shot back. "Of course, once we were inside, it became pretty damned obvious..."

"I liked it," commented Dean, "It was relaxed, it was friendly, it was a great place to chill out."

"Dean, it was a naturist resort!"

"Well, yeah," Dean gave his brother a sideways look, "That was the point, really, since I couldn't use my awesome temporary Cupid powers to play poker anywhere else, what with not being able to keep my clothes on whilst, uh, Cupidified."

"When Cas zapped us in there, I wasn't expecting everybody to be naked!"

"They don't like the word 'naked', you know," Dean told him authoritatively, "It has negative connotations of vulnerability and helplessness, apparently. They prefer 'nude', or 'natural', or 'undressed'. They're a bit like Ronnie, that way, you know, how she's says she's never naked, sometimes she just has no clothes on."

"I wasn't expecting me to be naked!"

"Nude, Sam. It's what you do at naturist resorts – you'd have felt left out if you'd been the only one there with clothes on."

"I wasn't expect Cas to be naked!"

Dean looked thoughtful for a moment. "Okay, that I get," he nodded, "It was appropriate, and points to him for workin' that out before he zapped you both in there, but yeah, not entirely expected."

"Is that all you can say?" Sam's voice was incredulous. "That it wasn't 'entirely expected'?"

"Well what do you want me to say?" replied Dean, annoyed, "And what were you doin' looking, anyway?"

"I wasn't looking!" Sam shot back hotly. "But it's kind of difficult not to, you know, just, kind of, see people, generally, even if they've got no clothes on."

"Sam," Dean said firmly, "The whole point of naturism is to demystify and destigmatise the whole series of hang-ups that people have about the human body. It's a beautiful, natural thing, capable, incidentally, of beautiful, natural acts, and it comes in all shapes and sizes and they're all normal and healthy and nothing to get uptight or ashamed about."

"Well, yeah, but..."

"Besides which, shrieking in surprise and screaming 'Jesus Christ Cas, your junk is huge!' would've been considered utterly inappropriate," Dean told him.

"I didn't!" protested Dean.

"You nearly did," Dean reminded him. "Come to think of it, so did I..."

"AAAAAARGH!" yodelled Sam in horror, "Can we stop this conversation five minutes ago?"

"You're the one who was frightened by Cas's..."

"Look I wasn't frightened, okay? It was just... a bit confronting..."

"I bet that's what Amelia Novak said on her wedding night."

"DEAN!" Sam yelped, giving his brother a double-barrelled Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual). "Shut! Up!"

"Do we need to stop for food?" asked Dean worriedly. "Is your blood sugar low? Because you're really cranky."

"I'm not cranky!"

"You shoulda gone out and joined Temeriel on the volleyball court – who knew that a Cupid could play like that? You'd never expect a guy that size to be so light on his feet."

"And that is a sight I won't forget in a hurry. You know the figure of speech 'he eclipsed the opposition'? Well, I think he actually did."

"Come on, Sam, he had a great time learning about humanity, and he was the star of the court!"

"He was the red giant of the court, I'd say, I think he forgot to put sunscreen on his vessel. Although I'm not sure if you can buy a single bottle that big."

"You are such a killjoy," humphed Dean, "I don't know why you're so cranky, you weren't the one who got spanked by an angry angel in an old lady suit after the job was done."

"_I'm not cranky!"_

"I should've let you get it on with Sylvia the dog-violating vet," Dean sighed regretfully.

"I didn't want to get it on with Sylvia the vet!"

"But she wanted to get it on with you," Dean's eyebrows waggled suggestively.

"Dean, the whole point of the job, and you being an Acting Cupid, and you making me an acting Acting Cupid, which I have NOT forgotten and will NOT forgive in a hurry, was to get Sylvia the vet together with Phil the mechanic."

"Priorities, Sammy," intoned Dean seriously. "Hang the job, the welfare of my little brother should come first. You need to get laid, Sam."

"You need to get a hobby," growled Sam, "And before you draw breath to tell me that you already have one, I mean a hobby that doesn't involve having sex with as many women as you possibly can."

Dean looked affronted. "That's not a hobby!' he protested vehemently, "To call it a hobby belittles the talents of the Living Sex God. It's a calling, it's a vocation, it's a duty..."

"It's a crock," Sam griped, "Pull over."

"Sam, we're nearly at Bobby's, can't you hold it until then?"

"I don't wanna take a leak, I want to strangle you, and I'd rather do that with the car stationary, because I want to choke the life out of you, but I don't want to smash up the car, or hurt Jimi."

"Gee, I had no idea you cared so much about my Baby," Dean grinned with the irritating cheerfulness he'd been using since Sam was old enough to be cheerfully irritated.

"Jerk."

They made it to Singer Salvage before Sam could make good on this threat to throttle his brother. Jimi barked happily, and leaped out of the car to greet his sister Janis and his mother Rumsfeld, who, as was her habit, immediately seized him by the scruff of his neck, pulled him down with his head between her paws and began to wash his ears.

Bobby met them at the door. "Come on in, idjits," he smiled, "Come on in, and tell me all about your job."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Who are you, and what have you done with Bobby?"

Bobby gave him a hurt look. "What, I can't be cheerful in my own house?"

"No," replied Dean shortly, "It aint natural."

"Well, don't mind me, Mr Grumpypants," shrugged Bobby, "Or, should I say, Mr Featherpants?"

Sam grinned as Dean scowled. "I'll kill her," he growled, "I'll kill that tattling cow..."

"Now, now," Bobby soothed, "I thought they were real fetching, boy. On you, they looked good."

"They made me crash!" Dean protested, "I had to fly, and my damned pants stalled!"

"Well, you're here and intact enough now," Bobby reminded him, "Years of accumulated brain damage notwithstandin', but," his smile windened, "Ronnie didn't just call to tell me about your aeronautical adventures."

"Yeah?" sneered Dean sourly, "What else did that smartass want?"

"Just to pass on some news," Bobby positively beamed. "Andrew popped the question! And she said yes!"

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Temeriel – he was the Cupid we were working with – he said something about that," he remembered, "Let slip some stuff he shouldn't have, then clammed up again."

"Are you serious?" Dean's eyebrows bounced almost up to his hairline too. "Ronnie? Crankiest Old North Werewolf In The World, Ronnie? Smartass bitch from Down Under Ronnie? Walks into bikers' clubhouses stark naked, and walks out with their money, that Ronnie?"

Sam's face broke into a goofy grin. "That's... that's fantastic!" he gushed.

"You two have been invited, though God knows why," Bobby told them, "I suspect that Andrew had something to do with that. And I," he beamed proudly, "Have been asked to walk the bride down the aisle!"

"That's really great! " Sam enthused, "When are they doing the deed?"

"Don't sweat it, Sam," Dean waved a hand in an unconcerned fashion, "I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to choose your outfit, and book your facial, get your nails done, organise your make-up trial, maybe update your 'do. Better just check in with her, though, you don't wanna turn up wearing the same thing as the mother of the groom, that would be, like, totally mortifying."

"Jerk."

"You two idjits will behave yourselves," Bobby stipulated, slapping Dean upside the head. "It won't be a big affair – some of Andrew's family, and a few friends. They want to find some place nice, make it a bit of time away from, well, everything." He looked pleased at the idea. "We can turn it into a bit of a vacation from all things occult. A wedding, a reception, we can pretend to be just like normal folks for a few days. Some downtime. It'll be great to relax for a change."

* * *

You'd think a Man of Knowledge would know better than to speak Famous Last Words like that.

Feed Bruce the plot bunny reviews – he's just suggested the most eebil thing to do to poor Sam...


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_Queensland, Australia, January 1992_

It hadn't been a Hunt, so she wasn't tooled up with anything beyond ordinary ammo and a knife; and for that, she would never forgive herself.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was part necessity, part a measure of the trust her father had in her, that Ronnie was the designated driver, chaperone and guardian to take her twin sisters, Anya and Maeve, to Brisbane for the state final of the music competition. With Anya's precious violin stashed carefully in the front seat, complete with seat belt, the twins sat in the back seat, and bickered about who would win, and who would be relegated to second place.

Ronnie watched them in the mirror, smiling. They were so very different from her that people often didn't believe they were related, let alone siblings (at nearly eighteen, with her hair grown into a long braid, they had thankfully moved past the point where people would tell the twins how lucky they were to have such a good 'big brother' to look after them). They were a pair of beautiful girls who were everything that their older sister was not: lithe, graceful, engaging and possessed of artistic talent that bordered on prodigy.

It had been an adventure, a real girls' road trip. Ronnie was already a veteran of time spent away from home with her father whilst Hunting, so she had them booked into a motel, fed and watered, and the pillow fighting broken up in time for them to have a decent night's sleep, then they were dressed and tizzied for the part in plenty of time on the big day.

"You pair will end up studying here," she told them as she herded them towards the Conservatorium at Griffith University.

"We'll come and live with you, Ronald!" piped Anya, "Because you'll be in third year by then."

"She won't want us in the way," Maeve said slyly, "She'll have a _boyfriend, _and they'll do_ it _every night..."

"I won't have time for that crap," Ronnie rolled her eyes, "I'll be studying, and still Hunting with Dad when I can. Besides which, I have no intention of playing housekeeper to you two brats, driving me nuts, sawing away or banging away, bloody scales all night, up and down, up and down, like somebody's torturing cats or something. And it'll be a cruddy student place. No room for a piano, Mav."

"You'd only do _it_ on the piano, anyway," sniffed Maeve, "With your _boyfriend_."

"Since when am I the boyfriend type?" demanded Ronnie.

"Well, der," Maeve pulled a face, "That's what people go to uni _for_. To get away from your parents."

"Won't happen," Ronnie told them. "Who'd want me, you idiot?"

"What about Tony Walsh?" said Anya. "He asked you to that party."

Ronnie's face darkened in recollection at the episode. "That was just for a bet, with his mates," she told them, "Anyway, if I was so keen on doing _it,_ why did I break his arm and his nose when he tried to grab my tits?"

Anya stared at her big sister. "It was you!" she yipped, "I _knew _it was you! He told everybody he'd been beaten up by the opposition after a match, but I knew it was you..."

"Well, you couldn't expect the school rugby captain to own up to getting his arse kicked by a girl," Maeve declared loftily. "He's a dickhead, anyway. He's got no neck. And he practically walks on his knuckles. The only thing that would root him is a gorilla. Or maybe Tania Pitt, but she's a slag and she'll root anything." She grinned. "Don't worry, Ronald, you'll find a much better one at uni."

"Yeah, he'll be a good bloke," agreed Anya, "With a neck."

"Yeah, right," Ronnie snorted, "If you figure out who this bloke is, let me know, so I don't punch him when he tries to talk to me."

"Okay!" said Maeve brightly, picking a young leaf from a nearby tree, then grabbing a flyaway hair from Ronnie's braid, "Give me a hand, An!"

"What? No!" Ronnie yelped, but it was too late: her little sisters were shredding leaves, looking for all the world like two girls fidgeting before the big occasion, but Ronnie recognised a working when she saw one. With a giggle, they threw the shreds together, then...

"Hmmmmm," Maeve frowned importantly, "I see an A, I see an N, I see a D... whadda you reckon?"

"Hmmmmm," echoed Anya, tapping her chin, "Yesssssss, I'd say you're looking for an Andrew, Ronnie."

"I'd say you're looking for a fat lip," grumbled Ronnie, "Come on."

"Or maybe an Anders," suggested Maeve. "An international student, maybe."

"Hellooooo! My name is Anders," intoned Anya musically in a bad Scandinavian accent. "I am from Sveden. I am Svedish. On account of being a Svede. From Sveden."

"I have a large Svedish dick," added Maeve, "For doing _it_, most efficiently, and Svedishly."

"A moose once bit my sister," nodded Anya.

"You do realise that I have weapons in the truck," sighed Ronnie in a pained voice, as they entered the concert hall, "Although strangling you with my bare hands would be so much more satisfying."

She sat in the seating reserved for contestants' family and friends, and watched them blow the opposition right off the stage. Still, occult Talent found its way out in all sorts of ways, and she couldn't help but wonder if she was seeing it happen right in front of her.

The wait for the judges' decision seemed to go forever, and Ronnie smiled to herself, suspecting that they were having a hard time separating the Shepherd twins...

Eventually they did, of course. Maeve was declared the winner, with Anya the runner-up, and a boy flautist in third place.

They were in their element, she could see that: they were interviewed by the university paper, a classical music radio station, and the TV crew that had been recording the event. They were performers, destined to go on to great things, and she thought that she might explode with pride for them.

By the time the post-contest reception had wound down, they were still chittering and actually squealing, on such a natural high that she thought she might initiate the pillow fight herself that night, if only to try to tire them out.

"We gotta ring Mum!" shrieked Anya, "We gotta tell her!"

"Aaaaaaand," Maeve waved her trophy, a truly ghastly silver thing, "We gotta fill this with champers!"

"Yeah, right," Ronnie pulled a face, "I'm not legal for another week, and you sure as shit aren't."

"You'd pass," Maeve told her airily, "You have before. Go on, you're supposed to celebrate when you win a trophy! You drink out of it!"

Ronnie gazed levelly at her sisters. "If we do this," she intoned, "You gotta look not hung-over by the time we get home tomorrow." The twins nodded earnestly. "Okay then," she grinned, "But no drinking until after we call Mum. And if there's a disturbance in the Force, you drop what you're doing, and we hide, because if she finds out we're getting pissed on cheap plonk, we're dead meat."

So they'd celebrated with fish and chips for dinner, and a bottle of cheap champagne that turned Maeve's trophy black. They screwed their faces up at the taste, then drank it anyway.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They had a late start the next morning, and the twins insisted on a shopping trip before the long drive home, so there was plenty of time for the twins to look presentable. Ronnie stopped at a supermarket to buy a bottle of silver polish, and set them to cleaning the tell-tale tarnish from the trophy.

"Why do we have to do this?" grumbled Maeve.

"Because she's our mother, and she's not stupid," Ronnie told her. "She'll take one look at that, and know exactly what we've been up to."

The hideous thing was gleaming spotlessly by the time they were past Childers, less than half an hour from home in the fading light.

It was then, on a lonely stretch of the Bruce Highway, that the engine spluttered and died.

Ronnie swore as she put the hood up.

"What's wrong?" asked Maeve, getting out of the truck and peering under the hood too.

"Distributor," sighed Ronnie, "It's been playing up. It'll be the brushes. I was planning to replace it, but I can fix it to get us home. Get back in the..."

She never got to finish the last sentence she ever spoke to Maeve.

It came out of the scrubby trees, moving so impossibly fast that she didn't see it until it was right on top of them. Maeve didn't even have time to scream as it grabbed her, cutting her throat and snapping her neck with a single swipe of lethal claws.

Ronnie's body was moving before her brain had time to register what the fuck was happening. It took several seconds for it to get with the plan. She'd never seen one up close before; they weren't that common, and smart Hunters dealt with them at a distance.

_Werewolf. Werewolf. Old North Werewolf..._

Anya's shocked white face stared at her from the backs seat as the monster slaughtered her twin.

"Window up!" screeched Ronnie, scrabbling for her gun, "Anya! Put the window up!"

Across the hood, she emptied the clip into it, but that just made it angry. Dropping Maeve's rag doll corpse, it leaped across the hood without touching it.

Letting out a scream, Ronnie scrabbled around the truck. With an angry roar, the werewolf thrust its long arm through the window as Anya screamed too, and tried to wind the glass up.

Ronnie pulled the opposite door open, and hacked at the hairy arm with her knife as it savaged her sister. Anya's screams of pain and terror mixed with the wolf's snarling. She reached across, trying to get to the window winder without having those claws take her head clean off – if she could trap it, get it stuck in the window, maybe they could get away...

With a crack, the window broke, and the monster reached in to grab for Anya.

Ronnie, fell back, screeching with rage, and her hand fell on something lumpy.

Maeve's trophy.

Still screeching, she grabbed it up it in both hands, and brought it down on the werewolf's arm as hard as she could.

With a howling shriek, the thing withdrew. Ronnie left the truck, and scuttled around it again, putting herself between it and her moaning sister.

"COME ON!" she screamed, hefting the trophy, "COME ON, I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

Enraged by the pain of the wound, the wolf charged in, claws raking at her, followed by the biggest set of teeth she'd ever seen...

The slashing was white hot agony across her face, across her body, and the teeth closed on her arm.

Howling almost as loudly as the wolf had, she brought the trophy down as hard as she could on its head. It jumped back, tottering almost comically, as if stunned by what had just happened.

Ronnie staggered after it, the blood on her face obscuring her vision in her left eye, and she hit it with the trophy again. It went down on all fours, so she hit it once more, then again, and again.

She kept hitting it, until it collapsed, and stopped breathing, and its head cracked open, and then she was slumped on the road pounding the head of a naked man until his brains splattered her and the tarmac.

The whole episode had taken less than three minutes.

She sat, stunned, looking at the mangled corpse in front of her, shock and blood loss numbing her to her own wounds. She crawled back to the truck, slipping in her own blood, and fumbled to open the door.

"Anya," she croaked, the tears starting as she found a faint pulse in her sister's torn body, and tried to triage the injuries, the worst of which was the mauling of her sister's right arm, "Anya, hold on, I'll... I'll..."

She paused, and started to sob with relief.

"It's okay," she quavered, collapsing by the door and taking her sister's unresponsive hand, "It's okay, An – feel that? There's a disturbance in the Force..."

* * *

I know about cheap bubbly tarnishing silver trophies, because it happened to me In A Previous Life, when I was one of those horrible horsy children – our pony club celebrated at the end of year gymkhana by drinking ghastly stuff from the silver trophies, if you were around the legal age, give or take a year or two. And yes, my Mum knew exactly what I'd been doing. It also explained the tarnish pattern on some of her old squash and tennis trophies...

Winchesters will be provided next chapter, bickering about... well, feed Bruce the plot bunny reviews: what would you like them to bicker about? Fair and reasonable towel usage? Acceptable level of noise when entertaining a lady acquaintance? Maximum permissible flatulence before eviction from car/motel room/state? Bruce awaits your suggestions!


	4. Chapter 3

For those of the Denizens who've come in a bit late, Ronnie (The Jimiverse's Crankiest Werewolf) was an OC who was only supposed to appear briefly in 'Just Like You' for the express purpose of annoying the crap out of Dean, but the Denizens seemed to like her, and she stuck around. Oh, and 'eebil' is Cheezburgerspeak for evil. Those damned cats and their stupid captions, they get into your mind and dey dusn't goe awae.

I can't believe that nobody had any suggestions about things for the Winchesters to bicker about *sniff sniff*. It must be because our YouSay Denizens are all still either in a turkey-induced après-Thanksgiving coma, or they're recovering from Post Black Friday Stress Disorder. Yes, that must be it... now, Bruce says, the only way to get more reviews is to write more story, so onwards to...

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_Oklahoma, twelve months after Dean's stint as an Acting Cupid_

In Bumfuck, Oklahoma, the Winchesters donned their suits, took their FBI IDs and headed to the small local hospital to talk to the last victim whatever was targeting the long-derelict music hall that had been turned into a bar and dance music venue. At first didn't want to talk to them, on account of co-operating with the Feds would damage his cred as a perpetrator of dubstep, but when Sam told Doctadanz that they were investigating a possible hate crime motivated by a dislike of his chosen music genre, he started to talk, and wouldn't shut up.

"It was, like, totally random," he told them, "I was just, like, setting up, you know, getting ready to drop some fierce beats, you know, and, like, I was just jacking in, you know, and then, like, there she was!" He paused, and looked down at his hospital gown. "You think I could, like, maybe get a gown that's, you know, black?"

"There who was?" prompted Dean.

"Dolly Parton, dude!" stated Doctadanz, "I was, like, totally ambushed by Dolly Parton!"

"And, uh," Sam swallowed, "What exactly did, uh, Ms Parton... do?"

"She was real, you know, angry about something," Doctadanz told them, "And she, like, picked me up, and threw me, man, she threw me across the room! Unbelievable! And she was trying to strangle me with a power lead when you guys showed up and scared her off. An she did this." He picked up the mirror on his side table, and looked sadly at where the words LEARN TO SPELL had been written across his face in some dark goo. "Nobody can tell me what it is, and it's, like, really not washing off, you know."

"Well," began Dean, "I think it's unlikely that your attacker was actually Dolly Parton..."

"But it totally looked like her!" insisted Doctadanz, tearing up as he looked at himself in the mirror. "The giant hair, the nails, the tits, the make-up!" He sniffed, then reached for a kohl pencil and began to repair his eyeliner.

"Well, at least we have a, er, detailed description," Sam told him reassuringly, checking his notepad. "A short female, with long nails, and heavy make-up, who was probably wearing a wig..."

"Don't forget the tits," prompted their interviewee.

"Young man, I never forget the tits," Dean told him sternly.

"Why would they do this?" asked the patient, dabbing at his eyeliner again, "Why would somebody dress up like that, you know, and totally try to kill me?"

"The people who perpetrate hate crimes are twisted, twisted individuals," Sam told him seriously. "If someone wants to kill you just because of the music you play, who knows what's going on in a mind that warped?"

"Yeah," sighed Doctadanz, looking at his defaced face. "Hey, you think I could, you know, like, work this into my narrative?"

Dean blinked. "Excuse me?" he said faintly.

Doctadanz regarded his own face thoughtfully. "I could, you know, have this written on my face, like, I'm telling people to go out and, you know, don't tell me what's right, I can work it out, you know, for myself..." he looked at them hopefully.

Sam considered the idea. "It could mean that you were rejecting other people's insistence that you learn to spell _their_ way, and be declaration that you demand the right to spell _your_ way," he mused. "And if they want conformity, then they'll just have to conform to you, because you won't conform to them." He paused meaningfully. "So, you'd be demanding that people learn to spell, but you'd be doing it... ironically."

Doctadanz beamed hugely. "Totally!" he smiled, "That's so totally cool that you get it! That's totally amazing that a Fed gets it! Uh, no offence," he added.

"Thank you, Doctadanz," Dean trilled in a voice that Sam recognised as meaning that he would be getting an earful in the very near future, "You've been very helpful."

They left the latest victim of their current target admiring his new look in his mirror, and touching up the lettering on his face with his liner pencil.

"He'd be doing it _ironically_?" demanded Dean, when they were out of earshot, "What the hell does that mean?"

"No idea," shrugged Sam, "But it seemed to cheer him up."

"Hate crime be damned," Dean growled, "Because_ I _want to kill him for crimes against music. And testosterone. I've heard that crap that they play. No wonder something wants to kill them."

"Well, I think we can rule out the authentic Ms Parton," Sam commented.

"It can't be a Leshii," reasoned Dean, "Because I doubt these guys admired Dolly Parton – her music, anyway – and it's intent on murder, not mealtime. This is a haunting. You felt the temperature drop when we found Doctadickhead last night."

"Which suggests that it's somebody who's pissed about the new venue it's become," mused Sam. "Somebody who doesn't like dubstep or house music."

"Gee, that narrows it down," Dean rolled his eyes.

"Somebody who doesn't like dubstep or house music, doesn't like bad spelling, and looks like Dolly Parton."

"Okay, that narrows it down a bit," Dean allowed grudgingly. "And now you're gonna drag me to the library, and start doin' research into the town's history, aint ya?"

That's exactly what Sam did. And it didn't take them long to identify a candidate.

Daisy-Bell Cranshaw was a country and western artiste who'd worked up her schtick well before young Dolly Rebecca had ever figured out that a décolletage in the face was as good as a foot in the door. Daisy-Bell had big hair, big assets, a big wardrobe, and a big voice. Unfortunately, the similarities stopped before getting to the actual 'musical ability' thing.

A veritable C&W Florence Foster-Jenkins, Daisy-Bell had been known for her almost complete incapacity to drag a tune along, let alone carry one. However, the minor matter of having no talent whatsoever didn't stop her from performing (as, indeed, it seems in modern times to be no deterrent at all to a multitude of talentless twerps who parade before snide judges on talent shows). Sam's research led them to some old timers, who nudged each other and laughed, showing off a few lonely teeth like crooked headstones, and reminisced about the singer who had been so bad, she was entertaining in her awfulness.

"She was a schoolteacher, you know," an old-timer had told them, with a cackle so impressive that it would've made the Wicked Witch of the West surrender her flying monkeys to an animal shelter and hand in her hat, "Before she found what she said was her true callin'. All I can say is, if that was truly her callin', then I shoulda gone into brain surgery."

She had performed – well, she had taken to the stage, and perpetrated what was technically crime against music – into advanced age, and had led a vigorous local campaign to keep the music hall open when the business started to fail. The campaign was ultimately unsuccessful, and some people said that Daisy-Bell died of a broken heart.

At least it was a straightforward salt and burn; a quick trip to a local cemetery, some excavation, and the mortal remains of Daisy-Bell (whose wig and false eyelashes were perfectly preserved decades after she had been laid to rest) went up in smoke, fill in grave, job done, head for bar, Dean finds a girl to go home with, Sam pull a bitchface of disapproval, roll credits.

They'd were preparing to leave town when the news of another assault upon a mononomenclatic muso – some kid calling himself Xtassee was found with his computer mouse shoved down his throat, and YO IS NOT A WORD smeared onto his face – which had occurred some hours after the restless spirit of Daisy-Bell was supposedly sent to the Great Big Stage In The Sky, was the talk of the diner.

"We must've missed something," Dean muttered, "Something that belonged to her, maybe. Crap, we're supposed to be heading to Missouri to watch Ronnie and Andrew make the most awful mistake of their lives."

"We got a few days yet before we gotta be there," Sam reminded him. "And I think it's great that they're getting hitched."

"He's doomed," Dean was glum, "He's gonna be stuck with her forever, if he does this. Forever is a long time, when you're married."

"What would you know about being married, jerk?" laughed Sam. "Anyway, they're pair-bonded. When Old North werewolves pair-bond, it's a lot stronger than some piece of paper and a big cake."

"Why does a wedding have a cake?" demanded Dean. "Why don't they have a wedding pie?"

"Wedding cakes are a modern version of something drawn from long tradition in many cultures," he recognised the sound of his little brother going into lecture mode. "In ancient times, breaking bread over the couple was thought to induce good fortune for them. Most decorated 'cakes' weren't even edible up until about a hundred years ago..."

"A pie would be much better," stated Dean firmly. "It would taste better, and be easier to cut."

"Tell you what," Sam replied serenely, "When you get married, I will personally arrange for you to have a three-tiered pie at your reception."

"Bitch." he shovelled another forkful of bacon into his mouth. "Why do people bother to get married, anyway? Seriously, what's a piece of paper between friends?"

Sam gave his big brother a _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Well, apart from the purely legal standing that it can give to a relationship in all sorts of ways from power of attorney or will and inheritances and a whole bunch of other things, some people want to make an overt commitment to each other, in front of their friends and family, and before their community. It's publicly embracing monogamy, so I'm not surprised you don't get it."

"I think Andrew's just doing it for the sex," Dean mused.

Sam shot him a horrified Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!) "Dean, that's ridiculous!"

"Yeah, you're probably right," Dean nodded equably, shoving another forkful of bacon into his mouth, "They're already doing it by now."

"Dean..."

"Seriously, Ronnie doesn't strike me as the religious type, the 'Ooooooh, I couldn't possibly before I'm married, God would be so pissed' sort."

"Dean..."

"I still haven't found out if werewolves do it doggy-style when they're human, or even if they do it when they're, you know, hairy all over."

"Dean..."

"Which begs another question: if a female werewolf waxes at the new moon, then after the full moon, does that mean she goes from, you know, Brazilian beach back to Amazonian rainforest? 'Cause that could have implications if there's skimpy wedding night lingerie, depending on the timing..."

"Dean!"

"I wonder what she'll be wearing? I'll laugh out loud if it's white, she'd have a nerve..."

"DEAN!" snapped Sam, "Can we concentrate on this case? We gotta find whatever's keeping Daisy-Bell here," he redirected the conversation. "I'll see if she has any family still in town, they might have some stories about mad old Aunt Daisy-Bell, maybe some heirlooms or keepsakes..."

"Hey, Sam, Sam," Dean grinned in the infuriatingly cheesy way that indicated that he was about to make what he thought was an uproariously funny joke, "If they got one of her wigs somewhere, would that be a 'hairloom'?"

"We could claim to be journalists," Sam gritted his teeth and ignored it, "Doing a story on old-time performers, local characters. Because right now, I got nothin'."

"Hey, Sam, 'hairloom', for a wig, 'hairloom', get it?"

"Fuck my life."

They were headed back to the car when Dean said, "I'll go head to the town hall, see what I can find in records there, while you go get a haircut."

"Huh?" Sam propped in surprised bemusement. "Dean, I'm not getting a haircut!"

"Seriously, dude, you don't want somebody to mistake you for a bridesmaid. Unless Ronnie has asked you to be a bridesmaid."

"No!" snapped Sam, one hand going defensively to his gloriously flowing locks, "Joni is going to be bridesmaid. Bridesdog, anyway."

"Well, people will think you're a bridespoodle, then," sniffed Dean disapprovingly. "Or a bridescollie. A bridespomeranian."

"I don't want a haircut!" protested Sam.

"Maybe not, but you need one," stated Dean, pointing across the intersection to a hairdressing salon with _Walk-Ins Welcome_ on the window. "See? We'll walk right past it anyway."

"I'm not getting a haircut, jerk," repeated Sam mutinously.

Dean sighed as they crossed the road. "Don't make me wrestle your uncooperative ass into the hairdresser," he begged plaintively, "I had to do that enough when we were kids, and you are too big to sit backwards on my lap now... Sam?"

Sam stopped in front of the salon.

"Well, I'm glad you've actually seen sense this time, so, you go on in, and..."

"I'm not stopped for a haircut." Sam pointed in the window, at a large display case in the salon. It contained a yellowing black and white photograph of a woman in a cowgirl outfit that seemed to be made up entirely of fringes, and on a stand next to it, a towering, intricately styled wig. The fading sign propped in front read:

**Hair-Raising Salon**

**Exclusive stylists to Miss DAISY-BELL CRANSHAW**

Dean's smile was predatory.

"And now," he positively beamed, "We need a good reason to go in, and ask about that wig..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They were still bickering about Sam's trim when they went back to Hair-Raising after dark to burn the wig, Sam complaining that it was too short and his ears were cold, Dean counter-complaining that he couldn't tell which hair Sam had actually had cut.

Daisy-Bell must've enjoyed the service at the salon, because she showed no inclination at all to show up there, even when they carefully removed the wig from the display case and dropped it into a trash bucket. However, the minute the salt and lighter fluid hit it, the temperature dropped ten degrees, and...

"Yaaaaargh!" warbled Sam, as he was suddenly tossed across the room to crash into a small cart stacked with pots of gunk. Dean whipped around, to see the ghost of a woman in a towering wig, wearing astonishing make-up, who had clearly been on good terms with a Bedazzler when she was alive. She was also extremely angry, as evinced by the globs of ectoplasm she was apparently leaving as she drifted toward Sam.

"Hey!" yelled Dean, as his little brother struggled to rise, "Hey, you, schoolmarm bitch! You call that shit you like music? 'Cause I call it crap."

Sam gasped to get his breath back as the ghost's attention switched to Dean.

"Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, asshole!" he went on. "You want real music? I'll give you real music!"

He began to belt out 'Ace of Spades' with about as much tunefulness as Daisy-Bell herself might have managed.

The irate spirit turned her attention to Dean, dodged the salt shot he fired, and before he could shoot again she was on him, grabbing him by the collar and throwing him into a shelf holding an assortment of mysterious hairdressing potions.

"I don't share your greed," he wheezed, keeping the ghost's attention on himself, "The only card I need, light her up, Sammy, is the ace of spades, the ace of spaaaaaAAAAARGH!"

With icy hands, Daisy-Bell reached down towards his face, then there was a sensation of icy burning across his forehead.

He let out another yell as Daisy-Bell suddenly shrieked, and disappeared in a flare of cold ethereal flames.

Dean let out a relieved sigh, and rolled over to see that Sam had scrabbled across the floor to drop his lighter into the trash bucket. He was dripping with... goo.

"Dude, I think she slimed you," he grinned.

His little brother turned to grin back. Dean wasn't sure why, until they got back to the car, and he caught sight of himself in the rear-view mirror.

Ex-schoolteacher Daisy-Bell hadn't been impressed with him, and he had the words DON'T SWEAR emblazoned across his face.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The left town right away, Sam driving as Dean swore and scrubbed at his face, Jimi doing his best to 'help' clean his Alpha up by deploying his tongue with copious amounts of half-Hellhound slobber. In a couple of hours they travelled from Bumfuck to Asscrack, Oklahoma, until they felt they were far enough away from their last job.

"Hey, you jerk!" snapped Sam from the bathroom of the motel room of their usual cruddy standard, "You used all the towels!"

"Well, I got covered in that gunk!" Dean snapped right back, towelling off his hair. "And that bitch graffiti-ed me! I had to do a lot of washing!"

"Hey, I got gunked too!" He waved a towel accusingly. "This one's covered in... yuck!"

"Well,_ I _was covered in yuck!"

"The idea is to wash the yuck off yourself," Sam protested, "Not just get wet, then wipe it off on the towels! Who knows what this might do when it gets laundered?"

"Calm down, Francis," instructed Dean, "That's mostly stuff from the salon I landed in. There's no danger of a washing machine somewhere bein' possessed, or anything. Anyway, between you and Jimi, I had to unpollute myself too – seriously, I should never have stopped and let you get burritos, or at least, I should've made you ride in the trunk afterwards."

"Stupid towels," griped Sam, "I should get one of my own. Seriously, is it just me, or are towels getting smaller as I get older? This one barely goes around me!"

Dean considered that. "You've noticed that too?" he marvelled. "It's true, it's like there's some evil entity controlling things, and making towels smaller, so we get less and less coverage, and more and more drafts. Maybe we could get you some of those microfibre turban things for your hair instead. They'd have the added benefit of you bein' able to wear them over your curlers before a big night out."

"Jerk," griped Sam, doing his best to dry himself with the remaining strangely too-small-to-go-all-the-way-around-him towel that wasn't covered in the collateral damage from the Hunt, "The least you could do would be to go break into housekeeping's closet, and get me some moreeeeEEEEEEEEE!"

Dean immediately dropped the towel he was using on his own hair and headed for the bathroom, gun in hand and Jimi at his heels, ready to tackle whatever had snuck up on his brother.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As soon as he realised that there wasn't any actual threat, his first impulse was to laugh out loud.

Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and all the hilarity went out of the situation.

"Ah, crap," he sighed.

"You think it'll wash out?" asked Sam plaintively.

"No idea," griped Dean, "But before we go anywhere near Missouri, we are gonna fix this."

"Amen," nodded Sam fervently, completely in agreement.

Because both of them knew that if they turned up as they were, Dean with platinum blonde streaks and Sam with purple highlights, they'd never live it down.

* * *

No, since you ask, I'm not really a fan of dubstep, what gave it away? Although I did hear this track the other day that wasn't bad – can anyone help me identify it? It went  
wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub wub...

Now, the sensible thing for Dean and Sam to do under the circumstances would be to go to a hairdresser, and say, look, we were on the receiving end of pranking, please fix our hair. Of course, it would cost quite a bit, and a couple of home colouring kits would be a lot cheaper... I wonder what they'll do?

Reviews are the Unexpectedly Zhooshed Winchesters in the Hair Salon of Life!


	5. Chapter 4

Bruce the plot bunny thanks you for your delicious reviews, and turns on the Big Sad Eyes to try to solicit more...

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_Bundaberg, Queensland Australia, January 1992_

After scrying for her daughters, Claire Shepherd had made emergency calls to send some of her husband's Hunter friends to the scene of the attack. They found Maeve dead, Anya barely clinging to life, and Ronnie unconscious, still clutching the trophy caked with the clotting remains of the corpse. They summoned the emergency services, then drew straws to decide who would get the sad task of telling Claire that she had lost one daughter, would probably lose another, and could possibly lose all three. Claire was not an overly religious woman, but that night, after calling her husband and telling him what had happened, she prayed fervently for the salvation of her children, in this world or the next.

A few days later, it seemed as if some sort of divine intervention had occurred: Anya was recovering in the IC unit, and Ronnie was just about well enough to go home, and getting more homicidal by the hour.

All Hunters hated hospitals; it was an invariant property of the universe, like the mass of the electron, or the speed of light, but Ronnie truly hated the staff. She hated the way that they spoke to her as if she was a frightened child. And she hated the sympathetic looks, from everybody from the surgeon (who always talked about her in the third person as if she wasn't actually there) and the nurses to the cleaners and the Salvation Army volunteer (who went away with an earful of exactly how much Ronnie cared about the idea of 'growing spiritually from this experience'). She'd never been pretty, but she knew from those looks, and the careful way in which anything that might be in any way mirror-like was removed from her grid square, that she must have one hell of a face now.

As if that wasn't enough to make her want to tear them all limb from limb – slowly – the patronising idiots who called themselves doctors told her (in voices that were no doubt meant to be reassuring and soothing but in fact made her murderously angry) that it was not a good idea for her to see her sister, because Anya's injuries were so extensive. By careful eavesdropping on the staff, she'd managed to pick up the fact that Anya was expected to lose her mauled arm after all.

But she wouldn't be any sort of Hunter if she couldn't get somewhere that people didn't want her to go, now, would she?

So, in the middle of the night, when the nurses were usually occupied with the old lady down the hall who had dementia and needed a lot of coaxing back to bed when she went wandering every single damned night, she made her move, slipping quietly away.

The trick was just to walk in like you were supposed to be there, she'd learned that a long time ago, so that's just what she did, managing to make her way unerringly to Anya's bed.

"Ronald!" her sister was awake, and smiling, "What are you doing here?"

"Going AWOL," Ronnie grinned carefully with half of her face, "Daft old Mrs Gubala is running interference for me, so I've come to check up on you, twerp." Her eyes were drawn to Anya's heavily bandaged arm.

Anya followed her gaze, and smiled again. "They told me I was going to lose it, you know," she actually chuckled, "They told me the blood supply and the nerves were too badly damaged, but look!" The pink fingers sticking out of the dressings wiggled vigorously, dexterously, then flipped Ronnie the big vee. "I couldn't move it at all before – it was all swollen, and purple – but I tried this evening after lights out, and they're all working again!"

"That's great, An! Ow," Ronnie winced as her happiness for her sister led her to smile, which hurt her face.

"How many stitches you got there?" asked Anya.

"Buggered if I know," sighed Ronnie, "The second I ask anything about it, they're all, ooooh, let's change the subject, isn't it a nice day outside? You can count 'em for me, if you like."

"Looks pretty impressive," nodded Anya. "You are going to be one seriously scary-looking bitch after this, you know that? Nobody's ever going to be game to fuck with you, ever again."

"They're not game now," sniffed Ronnie disdainfully, grateful for her sister's refreshing dose of reality. "Any idea when they're gunna let you out of here?"

"I'm gunna do my finger wiggling for the surgeon tomorrow," Anya's face became long and grave, as she did a remarkable impression of the man. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do, Anya. You must prepare yourself, Anya. It's to save your life, Anya. You'll be amazed how well you'll adapt, Anya. Don't forget to bow down and call me Your Majesty, because I'm a surgeon, Anya. I'm a fucknuckle with my head up my own arse, Anya..." she grinned evilly. "He'll shit himself!"

"I'd pay to see the smug bastard do that," Ronnie hummed thoughtfully.

"What about you, Ronald?"

"They keep saying stuff like 'remarkable recovery' and 'unexpectedly good progress' and upwardly revised prognosis'," Ronnie rolled her eyes. "I think they're aliens from Planet Patronising Prick. With a bit of luck, tomorrow. At least I'll be home for my birthday." Her face fell. "Although I don't feel like celebrating."

Anya's cheerful demeanour disappeared. "We... me and Maeve," she fought to keep the tremor out of her voice, "We got you a present. We picked it out together. She..." tears filled her eyes.

Ronnie's eyes filled too. "An, I'm so sorry," she quavered, "I'm so sorry, I wasn't quick enough, and you got mauled, and, and, Maeve..."

They clasped good hands, and hung on tightly, not wanting to make noise and draw attention to themselves.

"It wasn't your fault, Ronald," Anya tried to smile too, "If you hadn't been there, I'd be dead too." She looked worried. "You... you did kill it, didn't you? Whatever it was, you did kill it?"

"Oh yeah," Ronnie's smile turned grim, "It's dead, An, make no mistake."

"Good," her little sister sighed, "That's good." She wiped at her face. "Your present is stashed in the bottom drawer of my dresser," she said, "In the little blue box. You can get it if I'm not home in time."

"Thanks, An, I will," Ronnie promised. "I'm sure it'll be grouse."

"Dad's expected back tonight," Anya reminded her big sister. "He'll probably come in tomorrow."

Ronnie's face was stricken. "I know."

"He'll know it's not your fault," her sister stated loyally, "He'll understand, won't he? You'll be able to tell him what attacked us, won't you?"

"I'm... not sure," Ronnie replied, "It all happened so fast, I'm not sure exactly what it was. It's... really fuzzy." _I don't want to say until I can find out for sure. And I don't want to think about the fact that both of us are healing up better than we should be._

"Yeah, I know what you mean," sighed Anya.

Ronnie glanced up at the clock. "I'd better get back," she said, "They'll come looking if they notice me missing..." She peered carefully at Anya. "You really think your arm is gunna be okay?"

Anya wiggled her fingers again, and bent her elbow. "According to _them_, it's supposed to be on the verge of dropping off," her voice oozed disdain for the medical staff, "But I'll show them, huh? We'll show them!"

"We sure will," Ronnie took her sister's hand again. "Be good, twerp."

"Don't go through any of my stuff when you get your present," instructed Anya, "I'll know if you do, you bloody cow."

With a roll of her eyes, Ronnie headed for her own room with at least one weight lifted from her mind; she was still grieving for one baby sister, but overwhelmed with relief that the other was on the mend. As for whatever transpired after that... they'd figure it out.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Her Dad was there the next day, smiling sadly, and she suddenly felt all of five years old again. She managed to ask how his Hunt had gone before bursting into tears. The staff left them to grieve in privacy as Len let his daughter cry herself out, sobbing her apologies into his shirt.

"I'm allowed to break you out of here, if you feel up to it," he told her eventually.

"Good," she sniffled, wiping her face on the sleeve of her gown, "Because I'm going to kill somebody if I have to stay here any longer."

"Now that, we couldn't cover up," he managed a grin, "The fellas told Mr Plod it looked like a feral dog pack attack. What did you say?"

"Told 'em I couldn't remember anything," she replied promptly, "I'm not stupid. And they were only too happy to fall for it, seeing as I'm such a poor, frightened wilting little fucking flower."

"If you're a flower, my girl, you're a bloody triffid," he chuckled affectionately. "Did you see what it was?" he asked, "Fitzy and Hendo said you didn't leave much of it to find."

She looked into his guileless face, and...

"Ronnie?" he asked, taking her arm as she swayed, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she replied, smiling faintly, "I just still get a bit dizzy, sometimes... uh..."

The strange sensation ran through her. It felt as though her spine was trying to jump right out of her back

_her hackles stood straight up_

and a surge of something placed an impression rather than the word in her consciousness

_THREAT! THREAT!_

"It really was dark," she shrugged ruefully. "And it was frigging fast. I wondered if it was a wendigo, or maybe a really big kianpraty."

"Get dressed then," her Dad kissed her hair, "We'll break you out."

"Can we go and see Anya before we go?" she asked, "I wanna gloat about going home before her."

Her father's face changed, and she felt the blood drained from her own.

"Dad?" she said hesitantly.

He sighed heavily. "I wanted to leave this until we got home," he told her. "I went to see your sister before I came here. Ronnie, Anya died during the night."

The absolute shock she felt was completely genuine, even if it was for the wrong reasons, and may well have saved her life, because while her mind was racing it left her absolutely speechless. She staggered, falling awkwardly back onto her bed as gravity did a barrel roll.

"No," she managed eventually, "No, she's in IC..."

"I know they wouldn't let you see her," her Father went on gently, "But she was very badly injured in the attack."

Ronnie just gaped at him. He took her hand carefully.

"I know they wouldn't tell you anything, but they thought it was for the best," he continued in a sorrowful tone, "It was her arm. It was badly mauled in the attack. It was damaged beyond salvage, and they were worried about gangrene – they were going to amputate it today, to save her life."

"But..."_ She was fine last night, and her arm was healing, she showed me._

Her father's eyes were full of grief. "They were too late," he said in a desolate tone, "It had set in further than they thought. She deteriorated early this morning. Blood poisoning, from the dead tissue." He drew in a shuddering breath. She couldn't be saved, Ronnie. She's gone."

She felt the room spin around her, and thought she might just pass out. _Her arm was healing, she showed me, she __showed__ me..._

Len Shepherd gathered his last remaining child into a hug. "Get dressed," he told her, wiping his eyes, "Let's go home."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The following days were surreal for Ronnie, as the Shepherds mourned the loss of their beautiful, talented daughters. Family and friends turned up, to murmur awkward condolences – although Ronnie tried not to get too angry, because, seriously, what were you _supposed_ to say to somebody who'd just had their children die so horribly?

She found small, petty amusement in standing too close to the relatives and family acquaintances she didn't like much, and smiling at them, just to watch their discomfort at trying not to stare at the wreck of her face. Her Uncle Brian was the only one it didn't work on; he just grinned at her, one Hunter to another, and said, "Christ, Ronnie, you'll really look the part now," and she'd thanked him for the first genuine laugh she'd had since she'd been mauled.

And everybody brought food. Ronnie was bemused by that, and wondered why. Was it because when somebody died, you were supposed to be so struck with grief that you were unable to deal with the day to day necessities of living? But if that was the case, why didn't anybody visit to clean the bathroom, or vacuum the lounge or something?

Not that she minded the food thing – she was constantly hungry, and while her mother didn't seem to want to eat much, she was happy to polish off whatever their visitors left.

"If you keep eating like that, you'll end up fat as well as ugly," a snide voice informed her as she dug into what turned out to be an entirely acceptable lasagna. The comment was not made in fond teasing, as it would have been from one of her sisters; she recognised the snide sneer of her cousin Sean, two years older, thirty pounds heavier, and with some very definite Views on women Hunting. "Well, uglier," added her least favourite person on the entire planet (after Tony Walsh, the Hanson brothers and Kylie Minogue).

"Gday, Sean," she'd turned

_as her hackles stood up along her whole back_

and given him one of the discomfiting smiles she'd been using all week. "Day off from Special School, is it?"

"Knock it off, children," Len had said in a warning tone, "This is not the time."

Sean staggered back theatrically. "Shit," he smirked, "You really are ugly now, aren't ya? Pity the pretty ones died."

"Sean!" snapped his father Brian, "Muzzle it, pal!"

"Yes," she kept smiling, "Yes, it is."

"So, hopefully you've learned from this," Sean went on flippantly, "Women shouldn't Hunt. Leave it to the men, Veronica."

She looked thoughtful. "You know, I don't recall you ever having said that to Gammer Shepherd."

His smirk wavered slightly at the memory of their paternal grandmother, who'd presided over the clan with an iron fist in an oven glove, usually clutching a spatula. "Well, she was old," he said eventually, "Dad would've tanned me hide if I'd given her cheek."

Her Uncle Brian laughed heartily. "Your Gammer would've tanned your hide herself, mate."

"Then she'd have given Uncle Brian a thick ear for raising such a dickhead," Ronnie added pleasantly.

Sean snarled at her. "If you weren't damaged, pipsqueak, I'd…"

"You'd what?" she snarled back, stepping into his personal space. "You'd 'teach me a lesson'?" She glowered at him. "Gammer taught me," she growled, "She trained me up with Dad, and she taught me to take down bigger, stupider fuckwits than you…"

"Right, that's enough," Len rumbled dangerously, "If you two have nothing better to do than bait each other, you can…"

Sean never had been a fast learner, and as he just had to get in the last dig at Ronnie, his voice practically purred. "Pity you couldn't stop what killed your sisters, then."

So she stepped back and hit him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

A few hours later, when the shrieking cousins and hysterical aunts had been sent home, and Claire had made excuses for her traumatised daughter's behaviour, Ronnie was making her way through a plate of potato bake as her father sat down opposite her.

"Is he dead?" she asked nonchalantly, shovelling in another forkful.

"No," Len said shortly.

She shrugged. "Pity," she said around the mouthful.

"Concussion, skull fracture, and his nose will never play the piano again," her father said.

"Brain damage?" she asked brightly. "No, wait, how could they tell…"

"_Ronnie!"_ her father hissed at her. "What the hell did you do?"

_What the hell did you do to Anya?_ She bit down on the angry retort before it popped out.

"You saw," she replied sullenly, "I hit him. He's a dickhead."

"That's no reason to thump him!" her father snapped.

"You heard him!" she shot back, "You heard what he said! Anyway, I didn't hit him that hard."

Len stared at her. "Ronnie, you broke his skull!"

"Like he never hurt me when we were just supposed to be 'sparring'," she snorted. "He's a bully. He's enjoyed hurting me since my hair grew long enough for him to pull."

Len ran a hand over his face. "He'll be out of action for months," he went on in a level tone, "And unable to Hunt for longer than that…"

"Is that what you care about?" she thumped the table. "That you'll be a man down? Did you hear what he _said_?"

Len held his hands up. "Look, I know you're upset, of course you are, we all are, but…"

He sat back in the face of her sudden fury. "You can tell that piece of shit that if he ever, _ever_, crosses me again, I'll

_tear his throat out_

"twist his head off and shove it so far up his arse he'll be able to taste his own liver!"

Len stared as his eldest daughter, his only daughter now, bared her teeth at him. He stood up quietly.

"When you've finished stuffing your face, you can go and start packing up… their things," his voice shook. "Your mother wants to take it all to the Salvos by the end of the week."

She stared at her plate as he left the room.

A nudge at her leg made her look down. Diesel, her red Heeler, now too old and blind to Hunt with her but still a loyal companion, wagged his tail at her.

"What's happening, Diesel?" she whispered, stroking his greyed ears, "What's happening?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Ronnie could feel her father watching her. Hell, she was watching herself, and trying not to think about her growing, awful suspicions. But she was yanked rudely from her state of denial whilst packing up her sisters' clothes to go to the Salvation Army donations. In the bottom of Anya's dresser, she found a small blue box.

Her birthday present. She'd completely forgotten about it.

Inside the box was a small velvet drawstring bag. Curious, she opened it, and upended it into her palm. A small, delicate silver chain fell into her hand.

She jumped up and screamed as if she'd been burned.

"Ronnie!" her mother was at the door in seconds, "Ronnie!"

"It's okay, Mum," she found a shaky smile, "I cut my hand on the bedstead reaching underneath it."

"Show me," demanded Claire.

"It's okay," Ronnie said hastily, heading for the bathroom, "Gave me a fright more than anything. My own stupid fault. I'll just clean it up – I don't wanna bleed all over stuff, you know what hand wounds can be like, blood everywhere."

In the bathroom, she ran her hand under the cold water, then examined it. A scribbly pattern, an outline of the chain, was burned into the skin.

Her breath shaky and her legs wobbling, she wrapped the wound, and headed back to the twins' room, where she carefully scooped the present back into its bag with the box. She sat, stunned, unable to think.

What's happening? What's happening?

_You know exactly what's happening. And so does your father…_

If anyone could fix this, he could. Or he'd know somebody who could.

_So why did he kill Anya then? You know it was him, she was getting better, you saw her arm…_

Ignoring the treacherous little inner voice that had plagued her since she left hospital, she made her decision, and went looking for her father. She started in the workshop, where he could often be found if he wanted to think about things.

"Dad?" she asked tentatively, pushing the door open, "You in here?"

He wasn't. The workshop was empty and silent, except for the quiet hissing of the electroplating tub on its bench. Curious, she went to see what he was doing.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw what it was.

He was replating his silvered knife.

Biting down on a sense of panic that threatened to crush her, she calmly went back to the house, and went on packing up her sisters' belongings. And when the sun went down, she finally listened to that inner voice, and what it told her to do.

_Run._

* * *

There will be more Winchesters, plus more bickering, next chapter. Come on, what is it? Expensive salon, or cheaper DIY job? Either offers enormous snark potential...

Reviews are the Delicious Dishes Cooked By Somebody Else In The Kitchen Of Life!


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_South of Carthage, Missouri, the day after Daisy-Bell Cranshaw was salted and burned_

Mike Rogers only did security work casually, because a lifetime of police work had left him well and truly ready to retire to his small garden, and a rather interesting recent foray into home brewing (of which his wife did not approve, which only made it more interesting). But the head of security at the store, Howard Mann, was one of his oldest friends, and he was happy to help out by covering the occasional shift when one of the spotty youngsters (which was all Howie seemed to be saddled with these days) called in sick, or broke a nail, or had an appointment with their colour consultant or palm reader or something, and in deference to his seniority and background, the pay was not to be sneezed at. It was good money, when mostly all he had to do was deal with spotty youngsters (the shoplifting ones as well as the allegedly-working-as-security ones).

Mike was on his coffee break, nonetheless watching the monitors, when two characters that his instincts instantly labelled 'suspicious' walked into the store. Putting down his coffee, he strolled nonchalantly along the aisles until he was just a wall of cereal and a display of dog food away from them, to check them out.

It was the way they looked so uncomfortable that triggered his cop's whiskers, rather than their headgear, which was kind of weird all by itself: the taller one was wearing a beanie pulled down so far that he would have to be barely able to see (he'd seen stupider things, including would-be robbers who pulled opaque stockings over their heads and walked into walls). The other one, who was wearing a bandana covering his hair, looked like a grumpy gypsy.

However, once he realised that they were standing in front of the women's hair dye section, and he'd heard some of their conversation, all became clear. He toyed with the idea of sending Alma, a middle-aged and motherly woman, along to see if they needed any help, but then he figured that if they were there for what he thought they were, they'd probably already suffered enough…

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Dean, this is a bad idea," stated Sam, trying once more to convince his big brother that an authentic, improvised Winchester DIY fix would not be his first preference for this particular problem.

"This is a great idea," countered Dean, scanning the shelves where rows of glossy-haired women smiled vacantly back at them. "This is all the fix we need."

"Look, this is one occasion where I think it might be a good idea to get, you know, professional help," Sam said, "We could find a salon, and just tell them we got pranked, and could they please fix our hair…"

"Salons cost too much," Dean cut him off, "Besides which, didn't you say yesterday that you refused to set foot in one any time in the next twelve months?"

"That was before I washed the gunk out of my hair and found out I'd turned into Lady Gaga, and you looked like Billy Idol!"

"Well, I'm not going anywhere until we fix this," Dean stated firmly, picking up a box of dye. "And I'll do that in the privacy of my own crappy motel room, thank you very much." He held up the packet. "This looks like your colour."

"What if it doesn't work?" Sam persisted. "What if it doesn't come out right? What if we screw it up?"

"Oh, come on, Sam!" Dean rolled his eyes, "Have you seen some of the people who colour their own hair? Total airheads manage to do it without blowing up the planet or anything. How hard can it be?"

Sam took the box, and squinted at the contents panel. "Holy shit," he breathed, "Do you have any idea what's in this stuff?"

"None at all," admitted Dean cheerfully, "But I hope that it's some heavy duty industrial chemicals."

"This stuff is poisonous!" protested Sam.

"Well, you're gonna put it on your hair, Samantha, not drink it," scoffed Dean disdainfully. "Anyway, you did chemistry, didn't you? You'll be able to figure out how to do it."

"I dunno how much attention you paid in chem lab," scowled Sam, "But when I did it, they taught volumetric titration, and recrystallisation, and elecroplating…"

"I remember that," Dean grinned happily, "We did nickel plating. I plated some pennies and passed 'em off as nickels and dimes…"

"The point is," Sam glared at his brother, "We never studied 'how to fix your hair with home dyeing when you've inadvertently had it coloured by a pissed ghost'. Well, if we did, I was away that day." He looked at the box as if worried that it would bite him.

"Well, between your brains, and my natural awesomeness, we'll figure it out," Dean smirked annoyingly, then turned to pick out a box for himself.

"How do you know that these are what we need?" asked Sam suspiciously.

"The colours look about right," Dean replied airily, "Plus, the chicks on these packets are hot."

"Gee, that's always the most important criterion for picking a hair dye product," Sam gave his brother a withering _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "On this one occasion, could we just agree to get some help from somebody who knows what they're doing?"

"I aint letting anybody see me looking like this!" hissed Dean angrily.

"I'm sure they've seen worse," Sam reasoned, "Hairdressers have to fix colouring stuff all the time. Once, Jess got her hair done, and it turned out this really weird green colour, so she went to someone else, and…"

"My hair's not green, Sam!" Dean snapped, "It just needs something to cover up the blonded bits, and yours just needs something to cover up the purple bits. Now, either we can go to the school supplies aisle and get some markers, and you can colour yourself in, or you can shut up, we can get out of here, fix our hair, then get on the road."

Sam played his trump card. "What if there are hot women at the salon?" he wheedled.

"What if there are flamboyant men at the salon?" Dean countered readily. "Besides which, if there are hot women, that's just one more reason I don't wanna be seen like this." He checked the price on the box. "And this will leave a much smaller dent in the current credit card situation."

"Maybe we should just go meet up with Bobby," Sam mused, "And get him to help."

"I am NOT letting Bobby see me like this!" Dean was adamant. "He'll never let us live it down! He'll laugh! He'll take pictures! He'll use the word 'idjit' repeatedly! And he'll tell… her!"

"Oh, God," Sam sighed, "Could we just leave your ego out of this for one minute?"

"No," snapped Dean briskly, "Besides which, we'd have to make appointments, which means you'd have to walk around with that beanie on like that for longer, and I have no desire whatsoever to be seen walkin' around with a guy who looks like a giant dildo…"

"That's rich, comin' from a guy who looks like a gay pirate…"

"So, we will fix this right away. Now, I think that's your colour. 'Muted Chestnut'. Yep, definitely you. And I," he grinned and waved his own chosen packet, "Am definitely a 'Dirty Blonde'. So let's head out, bitch."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Yeah, we're on the road," Dean had his cell wedged between ear and shoulder as he squirted more of the gloop onto Sam's head. "Turns out our haunting was a Dolly Parton lookalike – well, technically, Dolly Parton is a Daisy-Bell lookalike..."

"Ow! You're pulling!" yipped Sam.

"No, that's just Sam, bein' a whiny little bitch," Dean went on breezily. "Uh-huh... uh-huh... yeah? Hey, don't let the aunties get ya, I've heard about them... Yeah... yeah... we just got, uh, somethin' we gotta take care of here, then we'll be on our way. Uh-huh. Sounds classy. Yeah."

"Ow!"

"Shut up. No, not you, Bobby, Francis here. Yeah, you know what a princess he is when he's havin' even a paper cut tended. Yep. Okay, we'll be there, as per arrangements. Don't forget to tell Andrew that it's not too late to change his mind..."

The word 'idjit' was clearly audible over the phone.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. Bye." He let the phone slide to the table, and renewed his assault on his brother's hair.

"OW! That hurts!"

"Well it serves you right for having so much hair, Sasquatch," sniffed Dean, eyeing his work critically. "The packet said you gotta get good coverage." With a final dollop of dye gloop, he teased Sam's hair into two amusingly suggestive bun shapes, and reached for the plastic bag. "Okay, you're done. Now you do mine."

Sam eyed the instruction brochure he'd been looking at as if it was written in Swahili. "There's mention of moisturiser here, and Vaseline..."

"Look, it's perfectly simple," Dean cut him off, "You put the stuff on my hair, you put the plastic bag on the stuff, we wait, we rinse, we're fixed." He plonked himself down importantly on the chair, and put a towel around his shoulders. "So, make with the repair job, Samantha, so we can get on the road, an-OW! Don't pull!"

"So, what did Bobby say?" Sam allowed himself a small smirk or retaliation as he carefully worked the dyeing cream into his brother's hair.

"The extended Jaeger pack is assembling," replied Dean, "And…"

"Dean!" Sam hissed, "You can't call 'em that! Not even as a joke! Andrew's family cannot, CANNOT, find out that their boy is a werewolf! And he's marrying another werewolf! They just can't!"

"Relax, Sammy," Dean reassured his brother, "Bobby's already there, and is charming them all. Heh heh, I wonder how he's coping with Great-Aunts Sadie and Dotsie."

"I was kind of hoping they'd have died off by now," Sam shuddered.

"Honestly, I think so was Andrew," Dean agreed. "But Bobby says the place is real nice, an honest-to-Cas antebellum home, running as a guest house-function venue. Lots of memorabilia. Civil War nerd's paradise. You'll be like a fangirl in slash."

"Why Missouri?" asked Sam.

"Well, his family are pretty much spread over the eastern states now," Dean relayed, "And it's kind of central for everybody, apparently."

"It's a shame Ronnie can't, you know," Sam said sadly, "Have anybody here. On her side."

"She will have people on her side!" Dean insisted. "Bobby's gonna give her away, and Joni will be a bridesdog, and Jimi can be a bridesdog too." Jimi, who had been watching the proceedings warily from his blanket, thumped his tail a couple of times. "And apparently, her old Hunt buddy will be showing up. 'Family don't end with blood, boy'," he finished with a very convincing Bobby impression.

"Well, that's something, I guess," Sam finished with a flourish, styling his brother's hair into a fetching mohawk, then reaching for the plastic bag. "So, how long do we have to leave this stuff on?"

"We gotta give it plenty of time to work," stated Dean firmly, "Gotta make sure that every little bit of colour is covered up." He sat down on his bed and picked up the TV remote. "So, what we need to do is… Yes!" he squealed in triumph as he found a re-run of Dr Sexy. "Allow ourselves to marinate for one episode, then rinse." He picked up a packet of corn chips and began to eat them noisily; Jimi leaped up from his blanket and joined his Alpha, sniffing suspiciously at Dean's bebagged head before dialing the Big Brown Eyes up to Too Adorable Not Too Feed.

Sam started his laptop. "We gotta find a suitable present," he told his brother.

"Bottle of flea shampoo," suggested Dean promptly.

"Dean! A wedding present!"

"A really big bottle of flea shampoo?" Dean supplied brightly.

"Can you just play nice for a short time?"

"Okay, how about something to make their wedding night special?"

"Maybe," Sam nodded, "Like, a really good bottle of champagne? A quiet dinner for two? Something just for them, after the hectic time a wedding is bound to be."

"I was thinking matching studded collars."

"DEAN!" snapped Sam, shooting a searing Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often) at his brother. "Seriously, we gotta get something..."

"Can'ttalkwatchingDrSexy," Dean smirked infuriatingly, and shoved another handful of corn chips into his mouth. Sam muttered "Jerk", and turned back to his search.

When the episode ended, Dean announced that it was time to rinse off, so the Living Sex God could arise unblemished to dazzle the world once more with his awesomeness.

"Is it all coming out?" asked Sam, sitting with his back to the tub and his head over the edge as Dean rinsed the gloop from his hair.

"Everything is a-okay and peachy," Dean reassured him as the colour of the rinse water gradually cleared, "And best of all, I can't see a single bit of purple." Sam sighed with relief as his brother handed him a towel. "Okay, now you rinse me."

"Uh, is it supposed to be that colour?" he asked dubiously, watching the purplish stuff streak away down the drain.

"I don't care what colour it is once it's done its job," sniffed Dean, "Just so long as it covered up the streaks."

"Okay, you're done," Sam squeezed the last of the water from his brother's hair, and handed him a towel of his own. "Hopefully we won't leave any on the linen."

"Great," said Dean, scrubbing vigorously at his head, "So, now we can check out, and go meet up with Bobby, unless you want to stay here and style yours before we leave, which I wouldn't recommend, because I'm pretty sure that dryer is an electrocution waiting to happen."

When they'd dried their hair as much as they could, they stood in front of the speckled bathroom mirror, and inspected the results.

"Well," Sam said eventually, "You were right, I don't have any purple bits left." He turned to his brother. "And technically, you don't have any blonde streaks left, either."

Muttering mutinously, Dean headed out of the bathroom, found his bandana, wrapped it over his hair, then picked up his duffle and stomped out to the car with Jimi following him.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

When Bobby got the message from the Winchesters, he headed out immediately, mind racing in worry. However, when he got to the run-down motel just short of the guest house, he discovered that they needn't have bothered telling him which room they were in: the bickering was audible from outside.

"This is all your fault!"

"My fault? _My_ fault? How is this my fault? You were the one who wanted to save money!"

"Look what you did to me!"

"What? I did exactly what you said!"

"Well, you did it wrong!"

"Don't you put this on me! I was the one who said we needed to get help, but noooooo, Mr Gung-Ho I Can Handle This wouldn't listen..."

"Oh, so it's my fault then?"

"Yeah, it's totally your fault! Oh, crap, it's on my _ears_!"

"Boys?" Bobby knocked anxiously on the door, expecting the worst. A glowering silence fell, and the door opened. "I got here as quick as I could, what's wro- GOD'S TITS!"

He wasn't sure whether to shout at them for scaring the crap out of him, bang their heads together for scaring the crap out of him, or just hug them both because there was nothing really wrong.

He settled for a long-suffering sigh.

"So, Red Sonja and The Grinch, you gonna tell me what the hell happened?"

* * *

Okay, so, hands up if, at some time, during a chemistry prac, you nickel plated copper coins, and passed them off at the canteen as higher denominations? I am of an age that 1c and 2c coins were still in circulation, so I plated some and spent them as 5c and 10c pieces. I blame my teacher for cultivating our curiosity about how stuff works. He was thoroughly irresponsible in that way - certainly, letting his Year 11 class set fire to a multitude of different chemicals to see what happened raised eyebrows (but hardly burned any off), and letting the class brew crude explosives was frowned on by the principal. I really never understood what the problem was: the crater we left in the middle of the main oval wasn't that big, more of a craterlette, really, and he was a Vietnam vet, so he knew exactly how far back we should all stand.

The science co-ordinator vetoed our attempts to produce our own gunpowder. Seriously, how are kids supposed to learn anything if you don't let them try?

Anyway, send Bruce reviews, because not only do they feed the plot bunny and make him dictate more chapters, they are the Irresponsible Experiments Carried Out In The Laboratory Of Life! (Go and look up 'Pharoah snake' on YouChoob. We did that. It's about the most toxic stuff you can poke a stick at, except for hydrofluoric acid, or maybe ricin, but it's enormous fun! There are boringly non-toxic versions using sugar and lighter fluid on there, too, if you want to indulge your Inner Undergraduate Chemistry Student. Go on, give it a try in the backyard this weekend; as Dean would say, what's the worst that could happen?)


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_Queensland Australia, February 1992_

By the time she realised she had to run, it was only a few days to the full moon, but Ronnie took a calculated risk and spent some of her precious time to head north to see Auntie Oodjeroo, a Clever Woman of the Gangulu people, who'd forgotten more about the country's indigenous fuglies (as well as the ones the white man had introduced) than most people ever learned. The Old Lady, nearly blind but no fool, had smiled sadly, and told her that there was nothing she could do.

"Cold country singing," she shook her head, "Whitefella's Clever Ones can't fix this. You're a Hunter, Ronnie, you know already."

"Auntie," Ronnie begged, "There must be something. There has to be!"

Auntie Oodjeroo had never been one to sugarcoat things. "I can call for the gdaicha man," she said sharply, using the term for a Clever Man whose role also included that of ritual executioner, "I know a bloke. Very good. Very quick."

"No." It came out as more of a growl than Ronnie had intended. "My Dad..."

"His duty, way he sees it," Auntie Oodjeroo tried to explain. "Way he sees it, his daughter's dead. Way he sees it, she went down fighting to save her sisters. He wants to see her at rest."

"He killed my sister already!" Ronnie burst out hotly. "He killed Anya!"

"Dead already too, I do hear," the Old Lady reported. "Shouldn't have healed up like that." Her clouded eyes peered keenly at Ronnie. "Neither should you." Her old clawed hand shot out, and grabbed Ronnie's bandaged one; Ronnie stifled a yelp. "Burned yourself, did ya?"

Ronnie snatched her hand back. "Auntie," she asked woodenly, "What can I do?"

"Make a choice, girl," the Clever Woman said more gently. "Your Dad, or the gdaicha man."

"Neither," stated Ronnie.

The venerated Old Lady sighed heavily. "Then run," she shrugged helplessly, "And don't stop. Because your Dad will come after you. And if he asks me, so will I."

Ronnie cleaned out the money she'd been saving to start at university, and took the first train she could south.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Australia was, demographically speaking, a small country, fewer than 17.5 million people, and most of them clustered along the southern and eastern coasts. The Hunting community was correspondingly small, but also surprisingly well-connected: they exchanged information, intelligence, and they liked to gossip to and about each other as much as any other group with something in common. Ronnie knew that the information would travel by bush telegraph, probably faster than she moved.

_Len Shepherd's girl was bitten._

The fact that she would be instantly recognisable meant that it would be even harder to stay off the radar; if her parents filed a routine Missing Persons report with the police, she would be raptus regaliter, as Gammer Shepherd used to say - royally screwed.

_Len Shepherd's girl was bitten._

She got as far as Newcastle before her mother's scrying attempts started to fade out, and instead she started to feel something else, a restlessness she couldn't identify.

The rail yards of the busy port town provided her with what she was looking for: a row of dilapidated freight cars on a siding, away from any structures, but still full of the din of a working waterfront. She bought a couple of heavy padlocks and a length of chain, and hoped desperately that what she was planning would work.

_Len Shepherd's girl was bitten._

It was a clear evening, the sort that followed a hot day and presaged another scorcher to follow, when Ronnie stashed her gear under the bogey of the freight car, locked herself inside, and chained one leg to the stoutest looking upright.

She knew about Old North werewolves; it wasn't surprising that the island nation had acquired an imported population, given the number of migrants who'd come from northern Europe and Scandinavia. The thing was, nobody knew exactly how many there might be - few of them got caught. Did that suggest that they could be...? With the help of families, maybe – wolves were pack animals, after all, did that apply to werewolves? She didn't know, it wasn't something Hunters were interested in, all they cared about was how to kill the damned things...

_Len Shepherd's girl was bitten._

The stars were just coming out as the moon rose, and the first cramps hit, all her muscles contorting at once, forcing from her an agonised shriek that turned into a howl. Her last coherent thought was to hope that, once transformed, she wouldn't have the dexterity or clarity of mind to get at the keys dangling through a hole in the floor on a piece of string, then there was nothing but confusion, then hunger, and rage.

_Len Shepherd's girl is a werewolf._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The next morning wasn't as bad as she'd feared it might be. It was worse than that.

When she woke, Ronnie ached all over, as if she'd gone several rounds with cousin Sean without an adult figure to step in when he started to enjoy dishing out the pain too much. The chain had held: it was still locked around her ankle, but the bruising and abrasions around it made her wonder if it was broken. Her hands were torn and bleeding, and she was naked, and covered in her own blood.

She sat up, and looked around in the dim light. The shredded remains of her clothes were strewn around the car, and the walls, shit, the walls were covered in blood, and full of dents. Staggering to her feet, she tested the length of the chain. The dents stopped where the chain pulled her up.

Apparently, she'd tried to batter her way out, and had gone close to succeeding.

She slumped, dazed, for several minutes, before shakily retrieving the keys on their string, and unlocking herself with trembling hands. She got the door of the car open on the second try, then her jellied legs collapsed under her. She threw up mightily, heaving until nothing but bitter bile came up, then lay gasping, trying to take in all in.

She'd done it.

She was a werewolf, and she'd prevented herself from killing.

After several more minutes, she crawled back into the car, and cleaned herself up as well as she could with the remains of her clothes, then staggered out of the car to face the day, and the rest of her life.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

She risked using the same rail car the next night – it already looked like someone had been murdered in there, and she pitied the poor bastard who found the mess she'd left, and even the poor cop who tried to figure out what the fuck had happened. As the evening light faded, she tried to concentrate on the tense feeling that had seemed to presage the shapeshift: if it was anticipation of moonrise, it might be a really useful cue as to when she had to hole up and lock up. If she was going to survive, she had to learn everything she could about her new state.

The next morning was just as unpleasant an awakening as the previous one, but the locks held again, and she thought she recovered a bit more quickly. She was better prepared: she'd undressed first, and had a bottle of water and some rags close to hand to clean up, and she didn't feel quite so bloody awful. I should've counted the dents beforehand, she scolded herself, looking at the walls – were there as many as last night? Had the wolf worked out that escape was impossible? That would imply some sort of rationalising thought process, even if she didn't remember it, she would have to lock herself at the other end of the car for the third night of the moon, and see if her wolfed-out self was working it out...

She was so intent on thinking things through that she almost didn't notice the disturbance in the Force. With a yip of fright, she scrabbled at a streak of her own blood on the floor, and hurriedly drew the counter-charm.

_Ronnie!_

Not quick enough. With her mother's help, her father was coming for her.

Swearing, she cleaned up, dressed, and ran.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

She fell into a pattern that was not a pattern, because patterns were what led Hunters to the things they Hunted. A cover story was easy: she was taking a year off before uni to earn some money, and was happy to take casual work wherever she could get it. She picked fruit, she stacked shelves, she washed cars, she mucked out racing stables (just the once, though; thoroughbreds might be so inbred that they're all born brain-damaged idiots, but they are smart enough to recognise an apex predator when it's wheeling a barrow of manure right past their boxes), and to keep her hand in, she played pool. She even found work at a council pound, cleaning up after impounded animals, where the manager was so impressed with her ability to befriend and handle the most savage strays or seized dogs that he offered her a full-time job.

Inevitably, she'd spot the Hunter closing in on her, and have to slip away.

After three months, her situation was becoming increasingly desperate: a Hunter had almost got the drop on her, and she'd had to backhand him into next week to get away. And always, there was her mother's scrying. Her Dad would've fessed up that Ronnie could sense and dodge her mother's searching by now. It had occurred to her that, if her mother located her while she was in wolf form and unable to detect and counter it, then they'd have several hours to locate her, and she'd be screwed. And if it had occurred to her, it would've occurred to her Dad. He was like a bloody Terminator, she mused grumpily, he absolutely would not stop until she was dead (and she wasn't going to get to snog Michael Biehn by way of compensation).

Occasionally, Ronnie wondered what he'd done to Anya. Pillow over the face, maybe? Nah, detectable at post mortem. Embolism in the IV line would be easier to get away with, and plausible in a girl who was thought to be in danger of dying from a gangrenous limb. He couldn't have shot or stabbed her, that would be too obvious. _ How will you do for me, Daddy dearest?_ she mused, smiling grimly. _One way or another, you will find me a tough kill, I promise you that. I promise __me__ that. Oh, and if you shoot me with ammo that I cast, I will come back and bloody haunt you, because that's just rude... _

Opportunities for research were extremely limited, on account of the sort of esoteric books she'd need would be mostly in the possession of Hunters. Basically, she was going to have to research on herself.

Silver was the factor she had to work with, and she spent a lot of time thinking about it. It stopped werewolves. But why? Shoot or stab a werewolf adequately with silver, and it died, then reverted back to human. Silver turned dead werewolves back to dead humans. It was an anti-werewolf substance. Or was it a de-wolfing substance?

Had anybody ever tried it with a live wolf, as a dewolfing preventative, before the shapeshift?

An empty cattle car outside of a South Australian stockyard was the scene for her trial of the desperate remedy. After she'd locked herself down as usual, she waited for the tense feeling that told her the moon was rising, and took out a small black bag from her pocket.

Her birthday present from Anya and Maeve. The silver chain.

She felt her lip curl as the acrid stench of silver, now as stinging as acid fumes, reached her nose. It was a smell that had saved her life when it came to her as a warning that a Hunter was on her tail, but so close, it was overpowering, and frightening, and considering what she was about to do...

"I will do this for a count of ten," she said out loud, her voice sounding more confident than she felt. "I will do this for a count of ten. Then I will do it for another count of ten. And after that, I will do it for another count of ten." The tense twitchiness in her increased as moonrise approached, and she tipped the chain out of its pouch and onto the rusty floor.

"I will do this for a count of ten," she repeated, imagining her sisters cheering her on, "I will do this for a count of ten, and I will learn to make this work, and I will start by doing this for a count of ten."

She ran out of time.

Ronnie reached down, grabbed the chain, flipped it into a double loop over her wrist, then jammed it up her arm as far as it would go.

She didn't get past three before she fell to the dirty floor, screeching in agony.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The foreman of the yard got the fright of his life the next day when he found the teenager, slumped against the wheels of one of the cars, pale, dazed and shaking with shock from what looked like the nastiest burn injury he'd ever seen. She was barely coherent, mumbling to herself and weeping with pain, not even able to tell them who she was.

He shouted for the first-aider, who sent someone to call an ambulance, while he carefully covered the wound then wrapped her in a blanket, reassuring her, and gently pressing for her name.

The poor thing was clearly delirious, because she couldn't tell them: she just gave them a shaky, strangely triumphant smile, and quavered, "It worked."

* * *

Goooooo Bruce! *shakes pom poms made of bok choy for the plot bunny* Next chapter, there will be Winchesters - bickering, natch - and, as promised, I think it's time for something really dreadfully traumatising to happen to Sam. Any guesses? Anybody who guesses will win some chocolate coated internets! (No, Leahelisabeth, he's not getting shoved into a box. Yet, anyway.) Of course, if your guess is incorrect but hilariously funny, it might get incorporated anyway (with appropriate authorial attribution, of course).

As we slide down the bannister of Life, reviews are the cushions that protect you from the splinters!


	8. Chapter 7

You are all fixated on Sam's hair, aren't you? Well, admittedly there's a lot of it to be fixated on. And to be fair, in the Jimiverse, he's kind of fixated on it too. I wasn't actually intending to tramatise him trichologically any further, although we had _such_ a wonderful suggestion from the Denizens that I must give an

**AUTHOR'S CREDIT**

to... drum-roll please...

***** ahd68 *****

...for an utterly evil, utterly cruel and utterly brilliant suggestion that I cannot resist incorporating into this story. Bwahahahahahaha!

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

_Missouri, five minutes after Bobby arrives at the Hideaway Motel_

Bobby listened, with the sort of resigned patience he'd once exercised when hearing the sordid tale of how it was in fact rampaging invisible dinosaurs being pursued by flesh-eating aliens that ground the crayons into the carpet, and there was no way that any blame at all could be attached to the teller of the tale.

The explanation of how Sam's locks came to be flaming red and Dean's hair came to be streaked with lurid green highlights didn't involve any dinosaurs or aliens (even if Dean could possibly have claimed to have been thrown up on by a passing visitor from Planet 'Do), but the alternating narratives didn't stint on the placement of fault (the teller of each version of the tale being, of course, utterly blameless in the whole catastrophe).

In the end, he called an end to the accusations, and sighed.

"Ya idjits," he grumbled, taking off his hat and scratching his head, "I came racin' over here, thinkin' that something was really seriously wrong, and all I find is..."

"This IS seriously wrong!" yelped Sam. "Look at me!"

"Kind of hard not to," Bobby grinned, "You aint gettin' lost in the dark with that hair, son."

"We gotta fix this!" Dean echoed his brother's consternation, agitation and general discombobulation. "I can't go anywhere, looking like this!"

Well, if the starboard side lights at the local landing strip go down I'm sure they could use your help," Bobby suggested brightly. Dean gave him a look that came perilously close to being a Bitchface™. "Well, can we just unbunch our panties for a moment, ladies, and be sensible about this?" He took out his cell. "I'm pretty sure we need professional help to sort this out. There's a salon not far from here that may be able to sort this out..."

"Told you, jerk," Sam dripped smugness.

"Fuck off, bitch," grumbled Dean. "Hey, Bobby, how come you know there's a salon near here?"

"It's where I'm gettin' mine done," Bobby smiled cheerfully, "Hi there, Selena! It's Bobby Singer again. Yeah. Look, I got a favour to ask you..."

"It's true," breathed Sam as Dean's jaw dropped, "Everybody in the country knows Bobby Singer. I bet they know him in the southern hemisphere. I bet they know him on the space station."

"I bet they know him in outer space," nodded Dean.

"Yeah," agreed Sam, "One day, humanity will make contact with aliens from another dimension, and the first thing they'll say is, we come in peace, tell Bobby Singer we said hi."

"Well, the good news is, they can fit you in for a repair job," Bobby announced as he rang off. "Say they see this all the time."

"Yeah?" replied Sam in a suspicious voice. "Where's the 'but'? There's a 'but' there, Bobby, I can hear a 'but' just waiting to fall."

"Well," Bobby went on as nonchalantly as possible, "The thing is, they're currently doin' a fundraiser for a local hospital charity..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

A number of hours later, Sam sat on his bed, still shuddering occasionally, as Bobby pushed the mug of sweet tea into his hands.

"There you go," he added soothingly.

"Why would they do that?" asked Sam plaintively, "Why would they do that? Why would they dress up like that, and, and, and..." he shuddered again, and gulped at his tea.

"I did warn you," Bobby reminded him, "They're doin' a fundraiser for the children's ward at a local hospital, donatin' some of their takings for the week to the cause."

"Couldn't they have done that without dressing up as clowns?" Sam wailed. After being shampooed, overdyed, conditioned and styled by a lovely kind lady who bore an astonishing resemblance to Pennywise, he was still feeling the after-effects.

"Hey, where's my soothing drink?" demanded Dean. "Where's my therapeutic beer?"

"Dean," Bobby frowned, "Don't be flippant, you know your brother really really doesn't like a certain type of circus act, and he's been traumatised here..."

"So have I!" snapped Dean, "I still got blonde streaks in my hair!"

"They're hardly noticeable now," Bobby assured him. "Gary explained to you that with your natural colour, it would be a bad idea to try to cover them any darker."

"Oh, yeah," nodded Dean, "Gary. Let's talk about Gary."

"Yeah," Sam let out a little giggle, "He looked like Flunky, the late night clown."

"You did that on purpose, Bobby!" accused Dean.

"Dean, he just happened to be the hairdresser available to fix your hair," Bobby reasoned.

"Well, how come Sam got the chick with the chest," pressed Dean, "And I got the guy who wasn't just 'flamboyant', he was flaming! Flaming! He kept calling me 'sweetie', that's how flaming he was! As flaming as his hair – and it _was _his own hair, not a wig! As flaming as Sam's hair! Faaa-LAMING!"

"If we could just put aside our coulrophobia and homophobia for a moment," sighed Bobby, "I think we should be concentratin' on the fact that it's over, it's done with, you've survived worse, and your hair is now back to normal. Or what passes for normal for Sam, anyway."

"Hey!' Sam yapped in protest, rallying to react to the snide slur upon his magnificent mane of luscious locks.

"So, don't dwell on what's been and gone, concentrate on the job ahead," Bobby instructed, "Which is, get on with seein' this wedding through, and the happy couple happily hitched."

"Yeah," Sam managed a small smile, "You're right, Bobby, the worst is definitely over."

"I guess at least we can move to better accommodation," Dean shrugged, "Now that I'm not embarrassed to be seen in public with myself. Or my brother. Well, no more than usual..."

"Hey!"

"Good," Bobby grunted, satisfied that some sort of normality had been restored. "So, why don't you two finish packin' up your stuff, and we'll head for..."

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. All three Hunters reached for weapons, as a cheerful voice called to them.

"Guys? Guys! Yoo-hoo! Hi!"

Puzzled, Bobby moved to check the peep-hole and then, puzzled, opened the door.

"Hi!" the woman positively chirped, "You must be Bobby! Are they guys here?"

Bobby peered down at her. "And who the hell are you?"

She pushed past him, waving a hand nonchalantly. "Oh, I'm an old friend," she said breezily, "I'm..."

Sam answered for her.

"BECKY!" he let out a piercing shriek, pronouncing her name as if it was a swearword.

"What the hell are you doing here?" snapped Dean, stepping in front of Sam.

"Well, I'm here to help, of course!" trilled Becky, "For the wedding! And," she added conspiratorially, "I'm also here to help Sam with his, you know, his problem..."

She reached into her bag, then brandished a bottle of baby oil.

Sam fainted.

"Oh, balls," sighed Bobby.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As Dean caught his baby brother and carefully manoeuvred him onto his bed, Becky attempted to rush to Sam's side.

"Why don't you just tell us what you're doin' here, missy," instructed Bobby, blocking her.

"I told you!" she said, smiling, "I'm here to help!"

"That does NOT reassure me in the least," muttered Dean, patting gently at Sam's face. "Come on, stay with me, bro."

"But I am!" she insisted. "I was proof-reading some of Chuck's stuff, you know, hot off the presses, and..."

"You proof-read Chuck's stuff?" echoed Dean. "You? Becky, your writing is crap! It's not just crap, it's beyond crap! It transcends crap, it punches right through crap and goes out the other side! It's so craptacular, it redefines crap! If there was a gold standard for crap writing, it would be an example of your stuff in a lab somewhere under a glass dome! You're not fit to proof-read a script for _Jersey Shore_!"

"Maybe a bad writer is a good choice to proof-read bad writing," Sam said faintly, "Chuck said he hates living bad writing."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Does Chuck know you 'proof-read' his stuff?" he asked.

"Weeeeeeeell," began Becky, which by itself suggested that the short answer was 'No', but she intended to give them the longer and more evasive answer, "You know how he's always so, you know, disorganised, so I try to visit regularly, and try to do what I can to smooth the way, take care of the small stuff, so he can worry about getting down the really important stuff." She smiled at Sam, fingers twitching as if they were just itching to smooth the hair back from his troubled brow.

"So, you been peekin' at what he's writin', and decided to show up here," grunted Bobby. "Oh yeah, I've heard all about you, missy."

"Oh, and I know all about you!" Becky almost squealed.

"Then you'll know I got no time for idjits," he shot back.

"No, I really am here to help!" she insisted fervently.

"Why do I get the feelin'," Bobby rumbled, "That the sort of 'help' you're proposin' is the sort of 'help' that Rumsfeld liked to give me when she was a puppy, while I was weedin' the herb patch, which usually consisted of diggin' up and chewin' on anything that smelled interesting..."

"I just know I'm gonna regret asking this," sighed Dean, "But how exactly do you intend to 'help'? We're not even on a job here!"

"Well, it's a wedding, right?" Becky began her explanation, "And when you go to a wedding, you're supposed to bring somebody, right? You know 'you are invited, plus one', so, I'm here to be Sam's date!"

"What?" chorused the Winchesters.

"It'll be great!" Becky smiled, "And it'll mean that you won't get those, you know, awkward looks from people who assume that you're together, as in, _together_ together, and let's face it, Ronnie needs all the support she can get, she'll have hardly anybody on her side for the big occasion, and she'll need somebody to organise a hen's night thing, and help her get dressed, and do her hair..."

Sam sat up, staring at Becky. "Yes!" he said, smiling, "Yes, this could work!"

Becky gaped at him. "It... it could?" she breathed, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing.

"Totally!" Sam enthused, "Dean, I can make this work! This could be the answer to the problem!"

Dean eyed his brother dubiously. "Er, okaaaaay, what problem exactly?"

"Her!" Sam pointed at Becky. "This is the solution!" He smiled brililantly. "We feed her to the cranky werewolf!"

Becky let out a little shriek.

"Come on," Sam giggled the giggle of a mind that has been asked to cope with too much very recently, "Look at her, listen to her, Ronnie will hate her on sight, and all we gotta do is remind her of the sort of stuff that Becky writes, and before you know it, it'll be claws out, and Becky for breakfast. Beckfast!" He giggled again.

"Sam," Bobby began carefully, "I understand how this woman has annoyed the crap outta you, but I really don't think I can countenance feedin' her to a werewolf."

Dean looked thoughtful. "I might," he conceded.

"Besides which," Bobby went on, "Ronnie has fought hard to avoid doin' that sort of thing, and I don't think she'd be prepared to start now. However tempted she might be," he added, _sotto voce_.

"What about if we planted a silver knife on her," Sam indicated Becky again, "And then told Ronnie, look out, Becky is here to kill you?" He looked hopeful.

"Sorry, Sam," sighed Dean, "I think Bobby's probably right. Ronnie won't kill anyone just for being annoying. Otherwise, she'd have torn me to pieces ages ago," he observed philosophically.

"I think Sam might be sufferin' the after-effects of bein' traumatised by, er, persons of a, uh, coulrific nature," Bobby suggested.

"And being traumatised by the appearance of someone of a perverted nature," growled Dean.

"Oh, I understand," Becky nodded seriously, "I totally know about Sam's fear of clowns thing, and I totally get it, they are creepy, with their white faces, and their fake painted on smiles, which always make their teeth look so big, and their crazy hair, and their fake laughing, and their dead, dead eyes..."

Sam let out another little shriek, and buried his head under the pillow. Jimi jumped onto the bed with him, and began to snuffle reassuringly.

"Kill her!" came the muffled voice from under the pillow, as Sam flapped a hand vaguely in Becky's direction. "She's evil, Jimi! Kill her! Kill! Kill! Kiiiiiill!"

Jimi stretched out his nose to sniff at Becky, and woofed in greeting.

"Oh, he is just adorable!" she gushed, patting his head.

Sam risked peeking out from under the pillow. "You traitorous mutt!" he snapped.

Bobby consulted his watch. "Look, it really would be nice if we could get there some time before the actual ceremony," he said tartly, "So, why don't you two idjits get your gear together, and we'll get goin'."

"That's a good idea, Bobby," Becky agreed, "But first, we really do have to fix Sam's problem. I was serious. I've had to deal with this before. It's way easier if somebody else does it for you."

She explained her plan.

Bobby sighed, and reluctantly agreed that it was probably a good idea.

Dean concurred, but added that it should be totally up to Sam as to whether he went through with it.

Sam let out a keening noise, and clutched at his brother's arm.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It didn't take long, and it would be fair to say that Becky enjoyed it more than Sam did. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it a lot more, to the point where Dean told her to stop making those noises, because she was upsetting Sam even more. (And when she offered to go lower if he'd just like to take his shirt off, he jumped up like he'd been stung.)

Later, as they followed Bobby in the Impala, Becky chattering away in the back seat, Sam wrestled with his decision, and wondered if he'd made the right one.

One the one hand, he was glad that all the dye was removed from his skin, and his ears were no longer red.

On the other hand, having to sit still whilst a practically panting Becky had massaged his ears with baby oil was something that would give him nightmares for a long time.

* * *

I fear that I may have done something foolish by mentioning Winchesters, baby oil, and massage all in the one chapter; if any of the Denizens are feeling A Bit Funny, I suggest you go and lie down. Or go and do a headstand under a cold shower.

Reviews are the Happy Doggy Assistants Helping You As You Weed In The Garden Of Life!

(There. And you thought it was going to be about Massaging The Winchester Of Your Choice, and shirt removal, and baby oil, and noises, didn't you? You depraved individuals...)


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_Bundaberg, Queensland Australia, November 1993_

_Len Shepherd's girl was a werewolf._

And then she disappeared.

For several months after the attack that turned her, there were sightings of her, and one Hunter got close enough for her to flatten him before he could draw his gun. There was a report about a teenager with a badly scarred face being treated for a very bad burn injury in a regional clinic in Murray Bridge, east of Adelaide, but after that, nothing. Claire's scrying and Auntie Oodjeroo's singing turned up nothing, even during the full moon, when she would be easiest to locate without interference. She just dropped off the radar.

The most likely explanation, of course, was that a Hunter had caught up with her, and done what needed to be done. Len and Claire mourned their last daughter, and hoped that whoever got her knew who she was, and she'd had the Hunter's pyre she'd deserved.

_Len Shepherd's girl was a werewolf. But she's dead now._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Australians are great tellers of tall stories – or to put it more succinctly, talented and unrepentant bullshit artists. The legends of the drop-bear and the hoop snake, told with straight faces to so many tourists, are testament to that.

Hunters as a breed are also great tellers of tall stories. Put the two together, and it was reasonable to say that, whenever Hunters got together Down Under to swap intel, yarns and gossip, a certain amount of bullshitting was not just likely, it was de rigeur. Which was why nobody gave much credence to the bloke who swore blind that he'd been on the trail of a wendigo in opal country inland, and he'd lost the damned thing in the narrow, twisting tunnels below ground, and it had doubled back on him, trapping him in a dead end, and he was sure he was dead meat until he'd heard a growl, then the shrieking of the wendigo, and he'd found it later, with its arms torn off, before he'd torched it and finished it off. There had been something else down there, he insisted, as his audience rolled their eyes (but bought him more beer anyway because it was a good story) and it had pulled his arse out of the fire.

Then, there was the guy who'd been tracking a black dog into timber country along the south end of the Great Divide. The terrain was rough, almost impenetrable, and he hadn't realised that he was on top of it before it found him first, and he would've been torn to pieces if somebody else hadn't shown up. He didn't know who it was, because the light was bad, but it was somebody really tall, and heavily built; whoever it was, his rescuer strode up to the black dog and punched it into submission, then disappeared, which was a shame, because it had to be another Hunter, didn't it, and he would've liked to buy the bloke a beer.

The Hunter who stumbled into a bar in Sydney after being ambushed by a small nest of vampires told of being joined by another Hunter under extraordinary circumstances. A young woman had walked, no, strolled into their lair, stark naked, grabbed one bloodsucker to use as a battering ram against the others, then turned to her and snarled, "Run!" She had no idea who the other Hunter was; it all happened so quickly, and all she could say for sure was that the woman had a tattoo of a red Heeler on one arm, and what looked like scarring down one side of her face.

Impossible stories. The sort of crap that Hunters talked after the job was done, when the adrenaline stopped flowing and the liquor started, just part of the rituals that helped them wind down, draw breath, and celebrate the fact that they'd gotten through one more Hunt alive. Stories that couldn't possibly be true. Like the stories about a werewolf spotted in lupine form, at the new moon, before disappearing – that one was dismissed out of hand, because it just couldn't possibly happen.

The most incredible one was the account of a werewolf being mauled by something else before the Hunter could finally catch up with it. What the hell, he wanted to know, could maul an Old North wolf? Except perhaps for another wolf, someone suggested. The teller of the tale had looked thoughtful. Well, the wounds on the carcass would be consistent with another wolf, he conceded, but how the fuck could it have sneaked right past him to get to the wolf he was targeting? Surely if it had scented him, it would've attacked him first? What sort of a wolf would go right past a nice juicy human, just to tangle with another wolf, a damned big one too, and risk getting killed?

A confused one, suggested a listener, to general laughter. Or maybe the thought of eating you turned its stomach, because you're so full of bullshit, said someone else, to more amusement.

Stories. Just stories. Never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn – it's where urban legends come from. But even the craziest stories have to start somewhere.

Even the ones about a werewolf that didn't kill humans.

_Len Shepherd's girl was a werewolf. But she's dead now._

The ones about a werewolf that Hunted.

_Len Shepherd's girl was a werewolf. But she's dead now._

She was damned good, you know. Cast bloody good silver rounds, too, and that's damned hard, but the kid had a real talent for metalwork. Len put the gas axe in her hands when she was seven, he said, and she took to it like a duck to water. Or you to a bottle of cheap rum. Isn't it your round?

Hey, maybe it's her, and she's not dead, she's just gone to Avalon, and she'll come back when we most need her...

_Len Shepherd's girl was a werewolf. But she's dead now._

Or maybe you were seeing things – given the fact that you were clearly dropped on your head as a baby, it would be weird if you didn't hallucinate about some beast helping you out because you were too bloody stupid to realise you were up against a rugaru.

_Len Shepherd's girl was a werewolf. But she's dead now._

Well, in that case, I got the hairiest guardian angel that the Almighty ever did create. And it's your round, you cheap bastard.

_She's dead now._

_Isn't she?_

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Claire had never completely stopped scrying for her last daughter. Once a month, on the last night of the full moon, she would gaze into the Depression glass dish she used most often, and search.

It was a ritual of remembrance rather than a true search, the action of a grief-stricken mother, analogous to visiting a grave or lighting a candle. Maybe it was even an attempt to discover her child's last resting place. The point was, she never expected to find anything.

And she certainly never expected an answer.

Len had told her that Ronnie could anticipate, and counter, her mother's scrying. Claire was part furious, yet part pleased that her eldest had paid enough attention to what her mother had tried to teach her of the Craft to manage that. It had never occurred to her that Ronnie would try it for herself.

So as she gazed into the thin layer of water in the pale green dish, she found herself gasping with shock when her daughter's face appeared.

"Ronnie?" she whispered, thinking that it must be an hallucination generated by wishful thinking.

The scarred face smiled, then the surface of the water rippled, and the picture shimmered like a cheap two-image hologram effect on a child's toy, wavering between the human face, and that of a grinning wolf.

_Hello Mum_

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"Hello Mum."

It was a warm Spring day, even in Melbourne, and Ronnie sat on the banks of the Yarra River, gazing into the small piece of polished steel, and smiled.

_Ronnie..._

"Bet you never thought I'd remember how to do this, hey?"

Claire was struck speechless, but her eyes were full of love, and the message came through loud and clear.

_Come home._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Len saw her from a distance, her back to him, gazing down at the neat plot where her sisters were buried. A fresh bunch of flowers lay on the slab. Well before a human could've heard him, her head came up, and she turned around.

She was older, and she looked older. The scarring on her face had faded some, her hair was longer, and her eyes were those of a Hunter twice her age. She'd been gone for less than two years, but in that time, irritating teenage cockiness had become an air of careful self-assurance. It broke Len's heart that he'd missed the transformation of his teenage girl, 'the kid', into a young woman. Her nostrils flared, as if she was scenting the air.

"Ronnie," he breathed.

She smiled, and he saw that the scars had done nothing to damage the brilliance of the way the expression could light up her face. "Dad."

"We thought you were dead," he blurted.

She laughed genuinely. "So did I, Dad," she whooped, "So did I..."

He met her half way, grabbing her up in a bear hug.

"I didn't believe it," he said into her hair, eventually stepping back to look at her. "I didn't believe it, but it's true, isn't it? It's you. The wolf that never kills. The wolf that Hunts."

She beamed at him. "It's me," she confirmed, "Dad, you won't believe what I've worked out!"

The words tumbled out of her. How she'd figured out how to lock herself away, how she had been keeping herself safe, so she wouldn't hurt anyone, and how she'd worked out something even more amazing than that.

"I can stop it," she said, barely containing her excitement, "I don't have to shift at the full moon if I don't want to. I've been practising, and it's getting easier. And I can _think_, Dad, when I've shifted, I can still think! Inside, I'm still _me!_ I can do it, Dad! I can still Hunt! I can't hold a weapon though – it's the claws, and my hands end up so big, and they just aren't dexterous enough – but I've been trying, and maybe I can learn. This is great, Dad, I can go to uni, and I can Hunt, I'll still have your back..."

His face was full of love, and his voice was full of pride. "Only you, Veronica Claire Shepherd," he shook his head, laughing gently, "Only you could pull off a stunt like this. Your Mum will have a fit when I tell her."

"She will, won't she?" Ronnie's grin was ever so slightly evil. "Is she here?" she asked eagerly, looking back towards where her father's truck was parked, "Did she come with you?"

"It's... difficult for her to come here," Len said sadly, glancing down at the gravestone. "She has her ways of dealing with it, but this is difficult."

Ronnie's face fell as she looked down too. "I miss them," she whispered, "I just wish I could've helped Anya, but I didn't know then..." she shot him a look that was desolate, a mixture of loss, regret and accusation.

Len's expression was as sad and lost as her own. "Ronnie, I did what I had to do," he explained, trying to keep his voice from breaking, "Anya was bitten. The bite wounds were clearly visible, as if her recovery wasn't enough of a giveaway." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "No parent should have to bury a child. And no parent should have to put down a child, like some sort of rabid monster. But that's what she was. The werewolf killed Anya, Ronnie, not me. I just laid her body to rest. If she'd known what she was, she'd have wanted it that way."

Ronnie stared at him. "But..."

Her father cut her off. "Anya wasn't a Hunter. She wasn't... so bloody-minded as you." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm so sorry, Ronnie, I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I was half a state away protecting somebody else's family when that thing murdered all my children, and I should've been there to protect them, that's what a bloody father is supposed to do..." he stifled a sob.

"Dad," she tried, but he waved her into silence, fighting back tears.

"That monster killed my daughters," he said, "And I'll never stop blaming myself for that. Having to clean up its mess, that's my penance." He gave her a smile. "I am so proud of you," he told her, "I want you to know, you would've grown into a bloody good Hunter. You already had. You were the best of a great bunch, Ronnie, and I am so fucking _proud_ of you."

She gaped at him in confusion, until he drew his gun. The acrid tang of silver stung her nose.

Ronnie stared in shock. "Dad..."

Tears stood in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, raising the weapon.

_Len Shepherd's girl was a werewolf. But she's dead now._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was pure luck that Ronnie hadn't gotten around to telling her father what else she'd been learning to do. If she had, he might've been prepared for it, and that would've been the end of her.

It shouldn't have worked; her approach to shapeshifting to the wolf on purpose involved a concentrated effort, as she fought to gain ease of control over what she thought of as 'flipping the switch', finding a way to let the monster out while still keeping control of it. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it almost worked, then she'd snap back. Sometimes, she just ended up kneeling there, starkers, feeling silly. But not too silly – she'd rather have another failed attempt than let the wolf out without making sure she had a firm grip on the lead.

This time, the wolf saw the threat coming before the human did

_THREAT!_

and slipped its collar.

Len's brain didn't have time to register as he watched his daughter suddenly appear to blur, shimmer, and expand into a monster, let alone instruct his hand to pull the trigger. She was in the air, changing as she bore down on him, snarling human face stretching and warping into the angry snarl of a predator intent on the kill. The animal roared in rage, grabbing at his shoulder with one huge hand as it drew back the other long arm, wicked claws extruded for a killing strike.

The werewolf hesitated. The long head, scars still visible, came down until it was level with his, baring teeth that would've done a Kodiak bear justice right in his face.

The arm came around blindingly fast, claws sheathed, and knocked the gun away. Len heard and felt his arm break.

He let out a cry of pain, and the wolf yelped too, then did a sort of shrug, and...

His daughter stood before him, unashamedly nude, chest heaving, her hand still digging into his shoulder in a vice-like grip as she glared up at him. The long canine fangs still protruded from her snarl. She growled, shook her head, and the fangs retracted. She let go, and he fell to his knees.

Ronnie backed away from her father. "It's my own stupid fault, isn't it?" she laughed without humour, a short barking sound that was half sob, "You only get the happy ending in a fairy tale. Real life doesn't work like that. It just doesn't. It just doesn't." She wiped a hand across her face, then retrieved his gun. "I always liked this one," she told his gaping face, "I think I'll keep it. As a reminder of my dear, dear father, who loved his children so much, so much, that he murdered one, and tried to murder another..."

"Ronnie," Len stammered. "How... how..."

She spat on the ground in front of him.

"Let it go, Dad," she sneered, "You must've heard the rumours – Len Shepherd's girl was a werewolf, but she's dead now. Anybody will tell you." She fixed him with a glare of pure fury. "I Hunt. I don't kill. If I did, you'd be dead right now. Maybe I should just kill you anyway, out of self-preservation. Because if anyone asked me, I'd say that you're the one who's some sort of monster. And you won't stop, will you?" She looked down at the shredded remains of her clothes, and kicked at them. "Go home and tell Mum I'm dead," she snapped. "According to you, I am anyway. And you know what? The idea of being dead to you suits me just fine."

She turned and vanished into the evening shadows.

Len sat, stunned, for several minutes, before staggering to his feet, and making his way back to his truck. There was no way he could get it started, let alone drive, not with a broken arm, so he sat, waiting for his wife to scry for him, which he knew she'd do when he didn't come home as expected...

He let out a short yell as a grinning face popped up beside his window.

"Oh, just one more thing," Ronnie told him in the cold voice he'd never have thought could come from his daughter, "If you ever, ever, come after me again, I will return fire, and you'll end up spread across the landscape in so many pieces that they'll never be able to salt and burn all of you. Bye, Dad. Don't come looking."

She disappeared into the darkness, and that was the last Len Shepherd saw of his remaining daughter.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Later, when she dropped the clip out of her father's gun to inspect it, Ronnie let out a snort of laughter. He'd been going to shoot her with her own ammunition. For some reason, the idea struck her as funny. She wondered how long it would take for him to come after her again, for word to get around that she was still alive and kicking. Well, alive and biting, perhaps.

She headed south again, and began to make plans.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Hunters talk, Hunters gossip, Hunters swap info. They're unreformed bullshit artists. But some stories die hard. Especially when the subject of those stories no longer seemed to care about being seen. Nobody talked about 'Len Shepherd's girl' any more.

_Ronnie Shepherd is the wolf that Hunts. She doesn't kill. She won't touch a Hunter. Unless you cross her. So don't shoot at her, unless you're damned certain of your kill, or you'll just make her cranky._

And then she disappeared.

There was talk that her father (who would never give up the chase, it was agreed) had finally caught up with her, that a Hunter had finally outsmarted her, that she'd taken the silver ammo she'd cast herself and blown her own brains out with her father's gun. Nobody knew for sure, but Australia was a small country, demographically speaking, and the Hunting community was a lot smaller, but tight-knit, well connected. No Hunter who was a werewolf could possibly hide in a population that small, in a Hunting contingent that small. So, if she was gone, then realistically, it could only mean one thing.

_Ronnie Shepherd was a werewolf. But she's dead now._

At least, as she snuggled down into the tiny bunk, jammed between a bulkhead and one of the innumerable bits of steel piping that seemed to twist everywhere through the hull of the ship on which she'd arranged to take illicit passage, that's what she hoped they believed.

* * *

Feed the plot bunny reviews, and I'm sure he'll find the Winchesters something to bicker about. What Constitutes Suitable Attire For A Wedding, maybe.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_Southern Missouri, several hours after the Winchesters' hair repair and further traumatising_

They made it to the guest house in the evening, and Ronnie and Andrew came out to meet them, Joni trotting over to exchange fond growl-rassles with her brother Jimi.

"Hi guys," grinned Andrew, "Oh, love the hair, Dean."

"What do you mean, you love the hair?" demanded Dean.

"I'm impressed," admitted Ronnie, "I never would've thought that you'd make an effort for my wedding, but credit where it's due."

"I didn't make an effort!" Dean snapped.

"Well, I envy you, spending so much time in the sun, then," smiled Andrew. "Very surfer dude."

"I was thinking more Def Leppard retro," Ronnie mused. "That's okay, I like their stuff."

"It takes a man secure in his masculinity to get streaks done," noted Andrew. "Kudos."

"I didn't get streaks done!" yelped Dean, "I got bleached by an asshole spirit!"

"They're yankin' your crank, idjit," Bobby chuckled, "You can hardly see your streaks any more, unless you're lookin' for 'em."

"Dean narrowed his eyes at Bobby. "You tattling old fart," he muttered.

"There's nothing wrong with a bit of manscaping," Andrew commented, "What a guy wants to do with his body is his own damned business."

"No matter how gay he looks afterwards," agreed Ronnie. "Did you get your pits waxed too?"

"Hey!" Sam interjected, "Don't you tease my big brother! That's my job."

"I hate you all so much," fumed Dean. He turned as there was a thump, a squawk, then a squeal as Becky extracted herself and her bag from the back of the Impala.

"What the hell's that?" asked Ronnie with her usual discretion and tact.

Becky dropped her bag, squealed again, and rushed over. "Oh – my – GOD!" she gushed, "It's you! It's really you! And you!"

Andrew and Ronnie exchanged bemused glances.

"Uh, yeah," Andrew agreed cautiously, "We're, uh, definitely us. Um."

Ronnie peered at Becky, who beamed at her. "Er, fellas, seriously," she said, "What the hell's that?"

Sam sighed deeply. "It's, uh, kind of a long story…"

"Uh, hello," Andrew smiled in the good-natured bemusement that often seemed to be his ground state when the Winchesters were around, "Do you think you could, you know, tell us who you are and why you're here?"

"I'm so amazingly glad to meet you!" she gushed, seizing Ronnie's hand. The werewolf yipped in surprise, and pulled away. "Wow, you really are a big girl, aren't you? I've known guys with arms smaller than that! I bet you could totally punch out any guy who bugged you! Oh, are those the tattoos of your dogs? That one's Diesel, right? Can I see your others? Oh, hey, can you smile for me, I'm just dying to see the smile, _that_ smile…"

Ronnie Shepherd, the World's Crankiest Werewolf, who had in the past beaten the crap out of male opponents nearly twice her size on two legs and four, shrieked, and darted to hide behind her husband-to-be.

"Uh, look," Andrew frowned, "You can't just go grabbing people and asking to look at their tattoos, especially if you don't know them, it's…"

"Creepy," supplied Ronnie, peering out from behind him.

"…Rude," Andrew finished. "But yeah, creepy too."

Becky was gazing up at him. "Oh, I can see why she finally fell for you," she sighed happily, "You're taller than I imagined. And… bigger…" she put out a hand, not at all tentative, and grasped his arm. "Oh, that's… substantial. You really do hide what you've got, don't you? You know, if I wasn't a Samgirl…"

A low rumbling growl cut her off. Ronnie stepped out from behind Andrew, teeth bared, but thankfully still fully humanoid.

"Becky," Sam put a hand on Becky's shoulder and pulled her backwards, "Manhandling a werewolf's pair-bonded mate while she's watching, not a good idea."

"Becky?" Andrew was still nonplussed. "Do we know you? Should we know you?"

"So what is she, a pet?" ventured Ronnie doubtfully.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Guys, this is Becky. Becky Rosen. Also known to the world, well, to a small perverse desperate and depraved part of it, as samlicker81."

Andrew and Ronnie exchanged a dubious look.

"She'safangirlwhowriteswincest," said Sam as quickly as possible, as if the very sentence tasted extremely nasty.

"I run the site morethanbrothers dot com," Becky announced excitedly, surreptitiously manoeuvring to get in another prod at Andrew.

"Fangirl? Wincest?" Understanding dawned on Andrew's face. "Ohhh, I get it, you're one of those weirdos who writes about… uh… " he waved a hand uncertainly at the Winchesters. "Er, guys, why do you have one of those weirdos travelling with you?"

"Please tell me she's the sacrifice for a sad but necessary blood ritual you intend to perform to thwart the rising of the Great Slavering Hedgehog God Pookie Pricklywickly," pleaded Ronnie in a tone that didn't hold out too much hope.

"Unfortunately, no," sighed Sam regretfully.

"You do know there's no such thing as the Great Slavering Hedgehog God Pookie Pricklywickly," Bobby chided.

"There could be!" Sam suggested. "Maybe we should sacrifice her anyway, just in case."

"Nuke it from orbit," Dean nodded vigorously, "It's the only way to be sure."

"Oh, don't be silly!" Becky giggled, "I'm here to help with the wedding!"

Andrew looked confused. "We don't have to have a blood sacrifice ritual for our wedding, do we?" he asked his fiancée. "You haven't said anything about a blood sacrifice ritual. I'm not at all happy about the idea of killing a person to get married. Exchange of rings is more usual. And less messy. We'll lose our deposit if the chapel ends up looking like an abattoir."

Becky seemed completely unconcerned about any possibility of becoming a midnight snack for a couple of formally pair-bonded werewolves. "No, I'm here to be Sam's date!" she trilled, "And, since you don't have any family here, I'm gonna be your bridesmaid!"

Ronnie gawped at Becky as though she'd just announced her intention to run the Boston Marathon wearing nothing but earrings made from pickled herrings, a coating of peanut butter and an enigmatic smile. In high heels.

"Bwsrgflf?" she went.

"Oh, come on!" Becky enthused, picking up her bag and taking Ronnie's arm, "It'll be great! I've got the perfect dress! And you'll need somebody to do your hair, and your make-up, because I know you're not planning to bother, which is just not right, and you gotta have a hen's night, too, because Andrew will have a buck's night, and we can bunk together, right, because you're not staying with him before the wedding, that's like totally bad luck, oh, this is going to be so much fun!..."

Ronnie was pulled along by Becky's enthusiasm, a bewildered cow picked up and whisked off by a tornado of enthusiasm. As she was half-dragged, half-herded into the building, she threw an enquiring bark over her shoulder to Jimi, who whuffed back.

"Well, that's certainly somethin' you don't see every day," commented Bobby. "It's like watchin' Mr Tumnus take Maugrim walkies – you can't help but wonder why the walkee doesn't just eat the walker."

"Has my wife-to-be just been… abducted by a writer of truly horrific and probably badly composed fan fiction?" Andrew sounded as bemused as Ronnie looked.

"Not so much abducted as… appropriated, I think," Sam suggested. "That's the thing about Becky, she can be very… determined when she decides she wants something." He shuddered. "I suggest you lock your door tonight." He shuddered again. "I know I will be."

"What did she say to Jimi?" asked Dean curiously.

"It doesn't translate directly," Andrew shrugged, "What it means is, 'Is your health good?' Literally, it was, 'Why haven't you eaten that?'."

"And what did Jimi say?" pressed Sam.

"He said, 'It's fun!." translated Andrew.

"Fun," grumbled Bobby. "Oh, yeah, I suspect she's gonna introduce a whole new meanin' to the word 'fun'."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Sam was in geeky history paradise as they made their way through the restored residence. Glass cases displayed artefacts and memorabilia from the Civil War, with descriptions of the excavations that had taken place on the grounds.

"Oh my God," he breathed, reading the booklet in their room, "They have a library here with a whole lotta books that were here before the war broke out! And journals! And I can go and look at 'em!"

"My brother the party animal," scoffed Dean, "The crazytimes mayhem just never stops with you, does it?"

"Jerk," muttered Sam, "There could be some really interesting things here – this is the sort of place where we can find stuff that's useful for us. I bet Bobby is already there."

"Well, don't let me hold you back, wildman," Dean flapped a hand at his brother, "You go and paint the library red. Remember not to resist when the riot squad arrives, I don't want you gettin' shot."

"What about you?" Sam asked, "It's too early to turn in."

"I'm kinda tired," shrugged Dean, "I might get an early night."

Sam eyed his brother dubiously. "Dean, are you feeling okay?"

"Sure, Sammy," Dean grinned reassuringly, then yawned. "Just tired. Becky is enough to drain the energy of any almost-sane man."

"Amen to that," Sam agreed glumly. "At least she's not likely to find me in the library, she'll be too busy trying to do girly stuff with Ronnie."

"Look on the bright side, then," Dean said cheerfully, "There's a real chance that she may be nothing but a bloody smear on the carpet by morning."

He gave his brother a cocky salute as Sam left. The moment his brother was gone, he turned to Jimi, who had made himself comfortable on his blanket.

"Can you see the streaks in my hair?" he asked the dog, turning to check his reflection in the mirror. "I can see the streaks in my hair. Bobby says you can't see the streaks in my hair, but those assholes could see them. Although Bobby told them." He turned his head from side to side. "I don't look, you know, do I?"

Jimi let out a contented sigh, and farted.

Oh, gross, dude," Dean screwed up his nose against the lavender scent of Hellhound flatulence, and opened a window. Thoughtfully, he returned to the mirror.

"Yeah, I can see streaks. Damn that Flaming Gary!" He paused. "You don't think he told Gary to leave me still streaked, just to get at me, do ya? He wouldn't do that…"

Jimi yawned, and burped.

Dean frowned at the mirror. "I can definitely see streaks. I can't go out tomorrow lookin' like this! The Living Sex God cannot show himself, looking like an extra from a remake of an 80s classroom sitcom!" He looked around, at a loss. Another home dyeing attempt was definitely not an option, and no salon would be open this late to try another cover up job.

In desperation, he knelt by his bed, and put his hands together.

"Now I lay me down to rest,  
I'm worried sick and so distressed,  
I beg for aid from Castiel  
My world's about to turn to hell,

There's a problem, so severe  
I really am in trouble here,  
I've tried to deal, but couldn't fix it -  
There's no countercurse that kicks it.

When we did the salt and burn  
The angry ghost, we were to learn,  
Interrupted one more gig  
Because she'd left behind a wig,

So we went to burn that hair  
But something awful happened there.  
An evil potion, foul and vile  
Has poisoned me, and so now I'll

Be tainted, ruined, I'll be nixed  
Unless this awful curse is fixed.  
I tried myself, to no avail,  
And even Bobby's help did fail.

I beg you, buddy, on my knees,  
To come and make this better, please,  
I've reached the end now of my rope:  
Help me, Obi-Wan Castiel, you're my only hope.

And if I die (it's not my preference)  
I hope at least you get the reference.  
Amen.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Although he was well and truly an adult dog, Jimi had never lost the puppyish boisterousness he was born with. Despite his size, he liked to sit with his Alpha, wherever Dean was. (Just about the only place he would not willingly follow was into the bathroom, in case he was seized by The Bath, and dragged into its evil soapy clutches.) As he grew from a roly-poly puppy into a very large Rottweiler-shaped dog, his preference for snoozing on Dean's bed did not diminish; if anything, it seemed to increase. However, at his adult size, if Dean was sleeping in a single bed, sometimes he would have to wait, hovering patiently at his Alpha's pillow, until Dean moved, turned or rolled over to leave enough space for him to get a pawhold. And so it was not at all unusual for Dean to wake up in the morning with his Hunter's senses telling him that there was a large shape right next to him, awaiting the opportunity to find a small space to enjoy proximity.

The earliest daylight was finding its way tentatively through the curtains when Dean stirred. It was a comfortable bed; he was in no hurry to wake up, but the nearness of a presence, which his instincts let him know even in his sleep was a friendly one, made him grin to himself.

"Hey there, mister," he drawled with a yawn, "You lookin' for somewhere to sit? Here ya go." He shuffed sideways, reaching out to pat the shaggy head that would no doubt try to force its way into the bedclothes to give him a good morning kiss.

His hand landed on a trousered leg.

"Hello, Dean. Thank you."

"YEEEEEEP!" went Dean, scooting across the bed in a tangle of blankets, where he walloped solidly into Jimi, who was in fact already stretched out on the other side of the mattress. The dog whuffed at him fondly, and when Dean emerged blinking into the morning light, kissed him on the nose as usual.

Dean glared up at the angel. "Holy crap, Cas!" he yelped. "Personal! Space!" He sighed. "Seriously, you knock five years off my life every time you do that."

"That cannot be correct," replied Castiel, looking confused, "If you were to lose five years from your life span every time you yelled 'Personal space!' at me, you would have been dead for some considerable time. In fact, you would have run entirely out of life span, and would have to be ageing backwards, which is impossible for humans although Sam has theorised that it is in fact happening to you." He tilted his head, and looked hard at Dean. "I received your message, and thought it best to get here as soon as possible, since it sounded as though the situation is serious. I am unfamiliar with the appellation 'Obi-Wan', and was concerned that the curse you have been afflicted with might be so severe that it was making you speak in tongues."

"Yeah, yeah, it's really severe," Dean disentangled himself. "I'm sorry for yellin' at you, it was really good of you to come so quickly. I really do have a serious problem."

Castiel gave Dean his most penetrating MRI Diagnostic Stare. "Your message implied that you were in a dire situation," he said.

"I am!" Dean stood up, "We're talking life-or-death, world-in-crisis, dividing-by-zero here..."

The bathroom door banged open, and Sam emerged, drying his hair. "Dean, are you talkin' to… oh, hi, Cas," he said, "What's up?"

"I received an urgent message from Dean, intimating that he required my assistance with a curse, incurred during the Hunt you are pursuing," replied the angel. "Whatever diabolical affliction he is suffering from, I cannot detect it."

Sam gaped at his brother. "You sent a p-mail to Cas, telling him it was an emergency, because of your _hair_?"

"Absolutely!" nodded Dean emphatically. "I can't go out looking like this, Cas! I'm disfigured! I'm tainted! It's… an abomination!"

"I don't believe this!" snapped Sam, giving Dean a searing Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "We had a bit of hair trouble on a salt and burn, but it's been fixed…"

"No it hasn't!" Dean indicated his own hair. "Look at this!"

Castiel peered at Dean's hair. "Your hair has been bleached, then overdyed," he stated.

"Exactly!" stated Dean. "And it's desperately important that you fix it!"

Castiel blinked. "You wish me to… undo the cosmetic alteration of your hair?"

"Yes," Dean nodded. "It's vitally important."

Castiel turned to Sam. "Can you explain to me how hair colouring represents a life or death situation?" he asked, apparently bewildered.

"No," Sam said evenly, "No, I can't."

"Will it interfere with your Hunt in some way?" pressed the angel.

"We're not on a Hunt, Cas, we're here for a wedding." Sam told him.

Castiel cocked his head and looked at Dean. "I was unaware that you were to be married," he said.

"No, it's not his wedding!" Sam spat, exasperated, "It's Ronnie Shepherd the werewolf, and her pair bond! This idiot has called you, so he looks his best in the photos!"

"But now you're here, you can fix it, right?" Dean beamed winningly.

"Dean, I wouldn't blame him if he sat on you and shaved your head," muttered Sam. "Cas is the Sheriff of Heaven! He's got important things to do!"

"And yet, a wedding is an important event," Castiel mused thoughtfully, "A public declaration, in the sight of my Father, of two people pledging themselves to each other in obedience to His highest Commandment, that His children love each other."

"There! You see?" declared Dean, "This is totally important! I mean, Temeriel said that Cupids were involved, so they gotta be an important pairing, right?" He turned an appealingly vulnerable expression to Castiel. "We don't want anything to go wrong on their big day," he wheedled. "I'd never forgive myself."

"Very well." Castiel waved a hand as Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean's hair reverted to its pre-Daisy-Bell natural colouring.

"Hey, thanks Cas!" enthused Dean, checking himself in the mirror, "You're awesome!"

There was a sudden flurry of knocking at the door, and out of long habit, both Hunters reached for weapons.

"Yoo-hoo!" They both groaned as Becky hailed them from outside. "Guys! Are you coming down to breakfast?"

"Yeah, just let us get dressed," called Dean, reaching for his jeans.

There was a little squee, and the door knob rattled. "Are you dressed, Sam?" asked Becky.

"I'm not answering that!" yelped Sam, clutching his flannel around himself protectively.

When they opened the door, Becky's eyes widened.

"Oh – my – GOD!" she squealed, "I'd recognise that coat anywhere! You're Castiel!"

"I am Castiel," he confirmed, "I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior…"

"Of Heaven, I totally know!" she gushed. "Oh, it's so exciting that you're here too!" He face suddenly lit up. "Oh, I've just had the best idea! You've already been a 'bridesmaid' for Ronnie, right?" When Dean was cursed, and they had a fake wedding to break that curse?"

Castiel's expression indicated that he remembered. "Having my vessel's hair braided was extremely uncomfortable," he recalled, "And I smote that shirt afterwards. Also, the matter of the 'chicken fillets' was never fully explained to me…"

"Well, if you're here, you can be on her side of the bridal party again!" Becky enthused, "You already have experience! Oh, come on," she looked at the Winchesters' horrified faces and Castiel's bemused one, "It'll be fun!"

"She used that word again," Sam said in a worried voice, "Why do I get worried when she uses that word…"

"I must admit a certain curiosity about human marriage rituals," the Sheriff of Heaven admitted, "The minimum amount of research I have done into the traditional associated activities raised more questions that it answered. For example, I do not fully comprehend the cultural connection between the groom's pre-nuptial socialising, and the adhesive known as gaffer tape..."

"Come on!" she grabbed Castiel's arm, "We'll go tell Ronnie that you're here, she'll be so excited to have a bridesman as well, except I'm already Sam's date, so I can stand with you in the photos, but I can't sit with you at the reception, well, we can sit on the same table, obviously, and you won't need to braid your hair this time, although we might have to straighten your tie…"

The Winchesters blinked as Becky started to tow Castiel down the hallway.

"First a werewolf, now an angel," remarked Sam. "Is she goin' to be appropriating non-human beings until she has a whole set?"

"You better watch your ass then, Sasquatch," sighed Dean, shutting the door behind them. "Well, let's go see if there's bacon."

* * *

There was a brief mention in 'The Consultant' that Cupids were involved in pairing Ronnie and Andrew up. Dean and Ronnie went through a fake wedding to break a curse on Dean in 'Prince Charming', in which Castiel was roped in as bridesmaid and required to wear a shirt that he did not like at all.

Now, Bruce the plot bunny has dictated a nice substantial chapter, so feed him reviews to fuel him up for the next one! After all, Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Appearing At The Breakfast Table Of Life!*

*Be careful with the syrup. Or at least put down a tarpaulin before you deploy it with extreme prejudice.


	11. Chapter 10

Gah! Gaaaaaah! Christmas is comiiiiing! Ruuuuuun! *runs off into distance waving arms around in an agitated fashion, looking for a rock to hide under*

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

_Rocky Mountains National Park, Colorado, about 20 miles north-west of Boulder, November 1995_

He looked up at the sky, fading from late afternoon to early evening. Darkness was less than an hour away, and the temperature was dropping. The dusting of snow, with a promise of more, should have been enough to keep trekkers, campers and other explorers of the place's mining history at bay, but there were still enough wandering around this late in the year for something to start picking them off, something big, and fast, and bloodthirsty, that left nothing but shredded camping gear and bloodstains.

It was wendigo country; any place where there had been a mining, farming or settlement frontier in a harsh environment was prime territory for the warped result of a starved, twisted human becoming a monster, but there were other signs, hints really, that put him in mind of something else. And that something else was a werewolf.

It was difficult to pin down exactly how he'd come up with that theory. There was the hint of some unexpected prints that appeared overnight, when the local fauna would not usually be active. There was the report from a walker who, getting turned around in the woods and not making his way out until after dark, had told of being sure that something was following him, and glimpsing a 'giant coyote', although the darkness of the wild could make everything look bigger and scarier. And there was the strange sense of _what _that any Hunter worth his salt developed – the ones who didn't learn it died pretty quickly – a combination of experience, guesswork and extrapolation. He'd been Hunting for long enough that he had learned not to ignore the instincts that steered him right most of the time.

So, wendigo, or werewolf. And just his luck that, if it was the latter, it wasn't a homegrown one, but an Old North beast. He'd encountered a number of them his long experience as a Hunter – the feral ones were bad enough, but he'd also run into a small number that could control the shapeshift, and while most who did that used it to control their baser instincts, occasionally you'd find one that revelled in slaughter. The mindless monsters that acted on instinct, with no insight into their behaviour, were scary enough; the ones who didn't have to hunt and kill, but chose to, were really frightening. They could think, they could reason, and they could plan, which made them much, much more dangerous.

So here he was, in the middle of the forest in the middle of the night, where he'd spent the last week, loaded up with silver ammo and carrying flares and fuel, but he wouldn't know what it was until he found it. Or it found him.

Settling with his back to a tree, he became completely still, and waited for the night to close in, listening to the sounds of the forest around him. "One thing you can say about Ian," his grandfather had once observed when he was a boy engrossed in a book, "He knows how to sit still. The boy could be a damned stone." It was a useful ability for a Hunter, and he'd had it even then, although he wasn't being trained up – the old man had decided early on that his youngest grandson didn't have the stomach for the Hunt. And even at that age, Ian agreed with him.

Yet here he was. Funny how things turned out.

The small group of campers he'd been watching from a distance stoked up their fire, an ancient ritual carried out by humans for thousands of years, to keep the dark, the cold and the animals away. Well, the ordinary animals, anyway – a campfire might scare off a coyote or a mountain lion, but it could act as a beacon to a wendigo or a werewolf. Still, he told himself, it was their decision to use themselves as bait, even after the park rangers attributed the attacks to some rogue predator, possibly even a black bear that hadn't yet denned for the winter. If only, he mused ruefully, a bear would be a lot easier to deal with.

Darkness fell, and he moved to change his vantage point. The brutal reality was that, if the campers were attacked, he would probably not be able to save them all, but from where he was, he'd have the best chance of watching, listening, and triangulating to work out where the monster was coming from, and where it went afterwards – if it got away and holed up, he could run it down and kill it. Damn it, it left little in the way of evidence of its passing, and he was a good tracker. So unless the frigging thing had grown wings and learned to fly…

It was the pocket of silence that caught his attention; a forest is not a silent place, not during the day, and not during the night. A thousand tiny creatures make their tiny noises, contributing to a cacophony that's startling to those not acquainted with the rustic reality of the great outdoors. This wasn't a normal silence, a no-humans-around-here silence; it was the sort of silence that resulted from those tiny creatures falling quiet when something bigger went by, something bigger, and nastier, whose attention no creature wanted to attract.

Ian froze in place, and let his mind still – listening to that sort of silence could tell a Hunter a lot about what was happening, including where the bigger and nastier something might be. He listened, and paid attention to the sense that let him know he was being watched.

No, the slight breeze was from behind him, carrying his scent. He wasn't just being watched; he was being stalked.

His eyes were the only part of him that moved, turning upwards to gaze into the trees.

Not wings, then. He smiled to himself, a scene and a line from a blockbuster movie coming to mind.

_Clever girl._

The difference in this case being that he was a different sort of Hunter.

Without warning, in a fluid motion he was diving backwards, rolling to come up on his feet several yards away with his gun out, drawing a bead on the foliage where that unnatural silence was centred.

_But not clever enough._

He grinned in humourless triumph as his finger squeezed on the trigger…

"If you fire at me, I'm gunna be so annoyed at you."

The voice was pitched low, for his ears only. Ian blinked, and peered at the trees.

The foliage barely rustled, and a young woman dropped easily to the ground from a height that should've damaged her, then sprang lightly to her feet.

She was scarred. She was scowling. And she was stark naked.

He didn't lower his gun; he'd seen how fast an Old North wolf with enough practice could go from humanoid to lupine killing machine mid-leap.

She watched him warily, with an air of cautious attention, giving him the impression that she was poised between fight-or-flight. "What are you doing here?" she asked without preamble.

"I could ask you the same thing," he replied, his aim steady.

She took in a deep breath, inhaling through her nose. "Silver," she noted, sounding surprised. "Hunter. " She cocked her head, looking thoughtful. "It's not you, then, is it?" She waved a hand in the direction of the oblivious campsite.

Ian stared hard at her. "No, it's not me. Wendigo. Or werewolf. Old North wolf. So, what _are_ you doing?" he demanded, "You're a long way from home, kiddo."

An expression of grief and loss flitted across her face so quickly that he almost missed it. "Same as you," she answered abruptly, noticing his eyes catch sight of an anti-possession tattoo. "You see this tatt?"

"I see an Old North wolf with control of the shift," he told her, sparing a momentary glance up at the full moon. "That's a dangerous combination."

She gave him a grim smile. "You better believe it."

He considered that. "You getting careless, letting somebody see you two days ago?"

"It wasn't my fault that idiot couldn't read a map," she snapped in her broad accent, "And if I hadn't been there to run interference, he would never have made it out. It's a wendigo. Although there's something weird about the pattern of attacks."

Ian relaxed slightly; he'd been wrestling with the same apparent contradiction in some of the sightings and encounters. "Are you telling me you're a Hunter?" he asked, incredulous.

She put her hands on her hips. "No, mate," she gave him a tight smile, "I'm part of a troupe of strippers called the Amazing Antipodean Amazons, and I got lost on the way to a nudist resort. How does a Hunter live to be as old as you while being so bloody stupid?"

He chuckled. "You're a young one - how does a Hunter as young and cocky as you survive Hunting alone?" he countered.

"Well," she began thoughtfully. "My training up started when I was seven. My gammer had a hand in that. And one of the things she pounded into me was, assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups…"

There was a growl from the undergrowth, a low deep growl that held echoes of the nightmares of the earliest humans, the monsters that denned in the dark and attacked unseen. Without a sound, something emerged from the dark greenery behind him.

Ian gaped, momentarily stunned, and it took a lot to faze him. It was… the word_ monster_ jumped immediately to mind as the shadows resolved into the shape of a dog. A large dog, which had been bred close to a nuclear power station, and had bears, sharks and razorback pigs not too far back in its pedigree. It growled again, like an angry bass-baritone chainsaw idling rough.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, taking in the large head, roached back and overmuscled frame, "What the hell is that?"

"He's as pretty as me, isn't he?" the she-wolf smiled. "And the best bit is, he's not even a year old yet, fuck knows how big he's going to get, so you see, I'm not alone," her smile widened, "Just for your information, you are not fast enough to kill us both. You shoot him, I'll tear your head off before you can turn around. You shoot me, and Mako will tear you to pieces." She looked thoughtful again. "Actually, I don't know if silver will kill him – according to tradition, he's part Hellhound…"

"That is a Wildhunt dog?" Ian stared in disbelief. "Seriously, are you telling me_ that_ is a _Wildhunt_ dog? They breed German Shepherds, not, not, not… hyenas on steroids!"

"He's a 'he', not a 'that'," she shot back, peeved. "None of us can help what we are. Or what we get bitten by, can we?" she gave him a pointed stare. "The important thing is, we use our superpowers for good, not evil." She gave him that smug smile again. "Which is something you should be grateful for, pal."

Slowly, Ian put up his weapon. "So," he said finally, "Wendigo."

"Definitely," the young werewolf nodded. "But I can't figure out the pattern. You've been out here for the last week, what do you make of it?"

He gave her a calculating look before answering. "Funny you should ask," he replied, "Because I was wondering about that, and this might sound crazy, but I think…"

He was interrupted by a scream from the direction of the campsite.

He watched as the young woman snarled, shrugged, and then… changed.

She was short for an Old North werewolf, even a female, but heavily built. The scarring on her human face was evident on her lupine form as the snout, bristling with wicked teeth, turned to him and let out a sharp bark that he didn't need to speak Canine to translate.

_Come on!_

The she-wolf bounded away down the slope towards the campsite, with the throwback dog right behind her. He didn't hesitate to follow.

And he took no satisfaction whatsoever from finding out that his hunch was correct: there were actually two of them.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The terrified teens were so busy screaming and running into each other that their overloaded brains probably didn't have the capacity to register a giant wolf accompanied by a mutant dog crash-tackling one of the lanky monsters intent on dragging them back to its lair. They barely comprehended what he was doing, when he shot one full of silver, doused it with fuel and lit it up with the flare gun. As the wendigo screamed and writhed in its death throes, the wolf picked up the remains of the one she'd torn into, and dumped it on the fire.

Following a job, it was Ian's preference to reassure the civilians with some sort of cover story; mostly, people were only too happy to believe even a far-fetched whitewashing of events, because accepting the reality of what they'd actually seen happen was just too much to comprehend. But in this case, as the she-wolf grinned across the campsite at him then limped off into the darkness, while the traumatised teens huddled together in mute terror, he decided that his best option was just to get the hell out of there, and leave them to believe that it was some sort of group hallucination brought on by a combination of alcohol and pot.

He found her easily enough afterwards, sitting calmly on a rocky ledge, waiting for him. Out of habit, his eye was drawn to the wounds on her arm and leg.

"That one should probably be sutured," he stated.

"I heal up fast," she shrugged, wiping absently at the blood.

"You'll heal up faster if it's cleaned and stitched," he told her. "That close to the shoulder is not somewhere you want excess scar tissue, if you can help it."

She gave him the sort of look he hadn't seen since his sister had questioned his judgement. "Who died and made you my mother?" she wanted to know.

"I was a doctor before I was a Hunter," he snapped, "And I know a wound in need of tending when I see one."

"Wow, all this and a great bedside manner too," she muttered.

"Look, those things deal in dead meat," he went on, "I really think it would be better if your wounds were dressed. Speaking of dressed," he frowned at her, "Should you really be running around naked?"

"I'll have you know that I am NEVER naked," she said tartly, "Right now, I just don't have any clothes on."

He laughed at that. "All right, then, Miss I'm-Not-Naked, how far in did you hike?"

"I've got my stuff stashed not far from here," she admitted.

"Let's go, then," he instructed, "I'll get my bag, and we'll see to those gashes. Really, what were you doing throwing yourself at wendigo, you idiot child?"

She smiled, genuinely, and he saw how it brightened her face. "You're bossy," she chuckled.

"Well you clearly need bossing," he opined, "It was a damned foolish thing to do."

"But it worked," she pointed out.

"Well, yeah," he conceded, "So does an atom bomb, but that doesn't mean that using one is a good idea." He sighed deeply. "I need a drink," he muttered. "I need several drinks."

"Amen to that," she agreed. "I got a bottle of rum with my stuff."

"Good. Because surgical spirit just tastes disgusting. So," he looked at his watch, "We'll patch you up, then put some distance between us and them. They're probably still looking around at each other and going 'What the fuck?', but there's no need to risk being spotted in case one gets enough neurons working to get help."

"You _are_ bossy," she said again.

"I'm not bossy, I'm just assertive," Ian corrected. The monster dog whuffed as if in amusement.

"Assertive, bossy," she humphed, standing up, "Same thing."

"It's not the same thing at all…" Ian began.

The she-wolf gave him a long look, then held out a hand. "Ronnie Shepherd," she said. "And Mako, you've already met."

He put out his own hand. "Ian Gregson," he told her. "Aren't you cold?"

"Not really," she shrugged. "Anyway, if I get cold, I can always change into my nice warm fur coat."

"Technically, in lupine form, you're still naked," he opined.

"No I'm not," she insisted, "I just told you, I'm never naked!"

"Naked, no clothes on, same thing."

"It isn't!"

"It is, you know."

"No it's not!"

"I think you'll find it is."

"So now you're a dictionary, too?"

"Nope – I'm a thesaurus."

"You're a smartarse."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of your nakedness."

"I'm not naked, you old fart!"

"Did I hear something?"

"If you want me to share my rum, stop it."

"Is it any good?"

"What?"

"The rum. Is it any good?"

"Bundaberg."

"Ah, great stuff… for setting fire to wendigos."

"Hey! Don't diss the most important export of my home town!"

"You're from Queensland, then? Where men are men…"

"Yep."

"…And the women are naked."

"I'M NOT NAKED!"

"Says the woman with no clothes on."

Ronnie huffed like a flouncing teenager. "Have you ever heard of two wendigos working together before?"

"Not working as a team," admitted Ian, "But it's feasible. They could've been related, or good friends, snowed in together with the rest of a travelling party." He paused. "Are you that good on two legs?"

"Better," she replied, "It's easier to think on two legs. Although I'm getting better on four. It's…" she rubbed absently at a band of scar tissue around one arm. "It's… not easy," she finished, bravado gone, "I've pretty much got control of it, but…" for a moment she sounded lost. "Sometimes it's… hard." The dog Mako whined, and leaned against her leg. She smiled, and stroked his ugly head. "It's been better since I've had Mako with me," she added.

They stared at each other, sizing each other up. _What's your story?_ The unspoken questions hung in the air. But it was too soon for that.

"Well, Ronnie Shepherd," Ian looked up at the sky, "Let's get you stitched up, then how about we get the hell out of here, and go find somewhere that serves alcohol?"

She smiled. "I think that's a great idea, Dr Gregson."

"Ian. Dr Gregson makes me sound old."

"You are old." She peered at him. "Exactly how old are you?"

"Ah, to be young again," Ian sighed, "When anybody over the age of thirty qualified as ancient. I'm old enough to know that I don't have to answer impertinent questions from young whippersnappers like you."

The two Hunters headed up the slope, with Mako trailing behind them, grinning and tail waving.

* * *

More Winchesters again next chapter. Hmmmm, what will they bicker about this time? To find out, feed the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews are the Mince Pies Of Momentary Peace On The Hectic Christmas To Do List Of Life!


	12. Chapter 11

Merry Après-Christmas everybody: may you, your mental health and your bank balance recover as soon as possible from the more hideous excesses of the yuletide season.

It seems that the Crowley of the Jimiverse has a number of fans – there have been requests for his appearance in this story. I'm afraid I can't think of a way to work him in just yet, but if you're really insistent, and you feed Bruce the plot bunny reviews, he might come up with something…

Andrew's heritage is German, so there will be no kilts. And no c-strings. Seriously, somebody invented that as a joke, and the fatuous twits of the fashionverse were too daft to realise it. That has to be how it happened, right, because nobody would ever seriously suggest them as something you could actually wear… right?...

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

_Missouri, after Castiel fixed Dean's hair_

Castiel sat bemused, a token cup of coffee before him, as Becky spent breakfast explaining her website to him. Or, more accurately, at him.

"This is most curious," he managed to say when Becky had to stop eventually to draw breath, "Humans' fascination with sexual fantasy is universal across cultures – given that you are in preference an heterosexual woman, that you derive pleasure from writing and reading stories about men in intimate sexual activity is intriguing…"

"Intriguing?" Dean nearly dropped his fork. "Cas, it's not intriguing, the word you're looking for is disgusting! Depraved! Perverted! Warped! Creepy! Gross!"

"That is several words, Dean," Castiel pointed out.

"That's because it's at least several kinds of wrong!" stated Dean, waving a piece of bacon for emphasis. "I mean, women wanting to think about, you know," his face paled, "Two guys doing, you know…"

"You enjoy live shows, pornographic films or images of women undertaking mutually pleasurable sexual activity," Castiel pointed out, "And you have, in the past, had some erotic dreams involving at least two women engaging in…"

"That's different!" Dean yelped, as Sam's face blanched.

Castiel cocked his head. "How is it different?" he asked.

"What?" Dean stared at him.

"How is it different?" Castiel repeated. "How is your erotic enjoyment of what I believe you refer to as 'hot girl-on-girl action' different to the genre of fan literature referred to as 'slash'?"

Dean gawped like a goldfish. "It's… it's… it's just totally different!" he asserted. "When a guy wants to, you know, think about, or watch, you know, it's totally different!"

"How?" Castiel was relentless in his earnest pursuit of further insight into the human condition.

Dean repeated his impression of a koi eagerly anticipating a rain of pellets from The Great Breathless Air Above The Pond. "It's.. it's… it's… we're brothers!" he stated in a tone of relieved triumph, "Because we're brothers! And she knows it!" He pointed his fork accusingly at Becky. "It's incest!"

"We call it wincest," Becky bubbled, "It's like a word that's a combination of their surname, Winchester, and…"

"Well it's wrong!" snapped Dean. "It's an abomination! It says so in the Bible," he added smugly.

"The Bible is inconsistent in the matter of sexual relations between close relatives," Castiel replied, "For example, whilst such relationships are generally forbidden, or portrayed as socially unacceptable, in Genesis, Sarah marries Abraham, her half-brother…"

"Shut up, nobody asked you," griped Dean, "And it's the flawed work of men, you're always saying – anyway, it's the twenty-first century now, and the social taboos about, you know, are there for a good biological reason! Right Sam?"

Sam, who had been turning greener as Becky's exposition went on, nodded desperately. "Yeah," he agreed, "Yeah, it's biologically unsound, for all sorts of reasons, and the social taboos derive from the innate aversion to…" he waved a hand uncertainly.

"And yet, you derived immense enjoyment from a pornographic movie in which the storyline revolved around two sisters," Castiel pressed, looking confused, as Dean's face assumed the expression of a child caught with both hands in the cookie jar and his pockets full of Mommy's secret stash of Godiva chocolate.

"But she _knows_ we're _real!"_ Sam yapped accusingly, an edge of hysteria in his voice, "It's not just fantasies for her – she knows we're real! And she knows we would never, ever, _ever_, actually…" he ran out of words, and swallowed hard, "I mean, Dean freaks out if I hug him, unless he thinks one of us is dying! But she keeps writing it anyway, and encouraging others to write it, and facilitating the distribution of it, and, and, and…" he waved his fork agitatedly, "It's just creepy, and wrong, and creepy!" He glared at Becky accusingly. "And your writing is totally crap!" he added. "Seriously, it's crap! It's so crap, it wouldn't even get a look-in for a Bulwer-Lytton Award! It's so crap, it wouldn't get a Bad Sex In Fiction prize from Literary Review, because it over-qualifies!" His expression was wild. "Your writing is so crap, it's like the text equivalent of _Jersey_ _Shore_!" One of his eyes started to twitch.

Dean glared at Becky. "If you've broken something in his brain," he scowled, "I swear, I will make you sorry."

Castiel turned back to Dean. "And yet there was that occasion in California where you spent an evening with two actual sisters, desporting yourself in a fashion that can only be described as debauched…"

Sam let out a keening noise, and tipped forward until his face was on the table. "I don't want to live on this planet any more," he wailed.

"Look, it's just… different, okay?" snapped Dean, "It just is!"

"But why, Dean?"

"Because!"

" 'Because' isn't a reason, Dean, it's a conjunction."

"I totally get that it might be difficult to understand," Becky cut in, addressing Castiel, "But that's okay, I get that it's not for everybody. There's all sorts of slash. I haven't written a lot of Destiel, but," she smiled at him, "Now that I've met you, I can see why it's so popular, and maybe I could branch out, you know, challenge myself as a writer, I should try that later…"

Sam sat up. "Can I shoot her?" he begged.

Dean put a consoling hand on his shoulder. "Not in public," he answered.

"Why didn't Ronnie eat her?" hissed Sam.

"I guess she'd be enough to give even a werewolf's cast iron stomach a bad case of food poisoning," sighed Dean. "Besides which, I'm pretty sure Bobby wouldn't approve. Where is the blushing bride-to-be, anyway?"

"She said she needed some air, and took Lita out for a walk," Becky replied, peering at Sam.

"I can't imagine why she needed to do that," Dean muttered under his breath.

Becky's face became concerned. "Sam, did you sleep okay? Because I know how both of you are practically chronically insomniac, because of the stress of your job – in fact, if you're having trouble, I could help you with that, there are some massage videos on YouTube that…"

"We slept just fine," Sam assured her hurriedly, "Uh, how about you?"

"Oh, it was totally great!" Becky enthused, "Me and Ronnie talked girl stuff!"

"You did?" Dean queried dubiously. "What sort of girl stuff?"

Becky looked thoughtful. "Well, I read her some of the story I'm writing at the moment," she indicated her laptop, "And she offered to tell me just how many ways she could kill a person with a crochet hook." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Just between you and me, I think she needs to spend more time in female company. I suggested that we do each other's hair, but she said she just couldn't, she was so worried that she might shapeshift and pull my head right off by accident, it's just awful that she's got no social confidence. I think I can really help her, here."

"There are not a lot of people who'd be prepared to put the time in for the world's crankiest werewolf," Dean smiled at her, "It's just an indication of what a generous person you can be, Becky."

"It is, isn't it?" she giggled.

"We should go find Bobby," Sam elbowed Dean, and stood up. "Come on."

Castiel did a head-tilt-of-confusion that would have done a German Shepherd proud. "Becky?"

"Yes, Castiel?"

"What is a Destiel?"

The Winchesters left. Or, more accurately, fled.

"A generous person?" queried Sam. "Putting in some girl-time with Ronnie? What the hell is that about?"

"Revenge, Sam," Dean did his evil laugh, "Revenge! The thought of that cow having to listen to Becky read her abominable crap will keep me warm tonight. And, if Becky suggests a manicure and Ronnie's annoyed enough, the claws will pop out, and skwoosh!, Becky's head will be torn clean off her shoulders! Either way, it's win-win, bro."

"You are a sick, sick individual," humphed Sam, "And one of these days… huh?" He did a double take as a blonde head popped out of a door, looked around, then disappeared again. "Was that Andrew? What's he doin'?"

"One way to find out," Dean replied, heading for the doorway, which proved to be one of the reading rooms. "Hey, Andrew, you havin' second thoughts?" he enquired cheerfully, "Because…"

"Shhhhh!" Andrew shushed, peering into the wide hallway again, "Keep it down!"

"What are you doing in here?" asked Sam.

"Hiding," Andrew admitted frankly, "My family have started arriving, and two of them got here yesterday. I'm hoping to make it back to my room without being…"

Before he could finish the sentence, a strident voice cut through the air.

"Andreas? Andreas! Is that you?"

Andrew drooped all over, as Dean grinned. "Andreas?"

"It's my great-aunts," Andrew explained, "I was named for my grandfather, and although I was given the Anglicised spelling, they never let a little thing like a birth certificate get in the way of their ideas about how things should be done."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Is that… in there…"

"Great-Aunts Schwanhilde and Dorothea," intoned Andrew ominously, "The Sinister Spinsters. The Gruesome Twosome. Feared throughout Tribe Jaeger as Sadie and Dotsie." He lapsed into a pantomime German accent. "Keeperz off ze gonnegtion to ze old country. Even zo bose of zem vere born in Norse Dakota."

"Andreas!" the voice called imperiously.

"They're not in there wearing horned helmets, are they?" asked Sam, only half joking.

"No," Andrew told him, "But they could easily stab you with a hairpin if a sword isn't to hand." He squared his shoulders. "Come on, they probably just want more coffee. They think it's not just a beverage, it's one of the five food groups."

"We got your back, dude," Dean promised, following the groom-to- be into the ladies' lair.

They sat on an ornate, generously-stuffed sofa, in a lounge that Bobby would later dub Hell's Waiting Room on account of the overblown décor. They were two elderly ladies, and both the Winchesters thought that they would make entirely fitting vessels for Danael or Varael, the Senior Librarians of Heaven and Hell respectively, should either of those angels wish to manifest on Earth to the scare the crap out of anybody Between them sat Bobby, in conversation with both of them.

Andrew introduced his great-aunts to the Winchesters, then Great-Aunt Sadie skewered her great-nephew with a laserlike stare and rattled off something pointed in German (which is a tautology, really, because German is a language in which anything from an order to fire an artillery piece to a compliment about a hairstyle can sound pointed). Andrew left. Or, more accurately, fled.

"So, you are friends of Veronica's?" enquired Sadie pointedly (she did pointedly very well in English, too).

"Uh, that's right," Sam nodded. "We, uh, we met her through Bobby. She's been a big help with our dog. Training him."

"Oh, yeah," Dean nodded, "She has a lot of experience with the canine mindset…" Sam surreptitiously kicked him in the leg.

"And you are the nephews of Bobby, who will be giving the bride away," commented Sadie, smiling at him.

"Yeah," nodded Dean, "He's practically a father to us."

"For my sins," sighed Bobby. "I get all manner of strays washin' up on my doorstep."

"I think it's wonderful," declared Dotsie, "That Andreas has finally found the right woman! I was worried about him, you know," she admitted, "Do you remember when he was three years old, that morning when he came downstairs wearing his cousin's nightie? I nearly fainted. Of course," her face became disapproving, "They have been living in sin all this time, you know…"

"Don't be so judgmental, you sanctimonious cow," Sadie shot back. "You'll have to excuse her," she turned back to the Winchesters, "She holds some very old-fashioned and unenlightened opinions."

"Ha! Says the woman who pesters Andreas constantly about his hair," sniffed Dotsie.

"Well, it's true," sniffed Sadie, "Long hair on a man is effeminate."

"Yes, yes it is," agreed Dean, nodding seriously, as Sam scowled at him.

"He looked so much smarter with it short, when he was in uniform," sighed Sadie.

"You'll have to excuse her," Dotsie echoed her sister, a faintly malicious gleam in her eye, "She was dropped on her head as a baby."

"I was not!" snapped Sadie.

"Oh, but you were, liebchen," Dotsie smiled, well, pointedly, "I remember it very clearly: Mutti handed you to Oma, and you squealed and wiggled, and then…"

The argument that had apparently been going on for the past several decades paused as Andrew returned with a tray holding three coffee mugs, trailed by Castiel and Becky. Castiel's expression suggested that she had been trying to explain something at him again.

"And who do we have here?" asked Sadie, as Andrew unloaded his tray. "Ach, Andreas, will you not consider a haircut before your big important day, you see how smart Dean looks…"

"Tantiiiii," Andrew whined in embarrassment like any child being taken to task in front of friends.

Becky smiled widely and introduced herself. "Hi there! I'm Becky! And I'm here to be Ronnie's bridesmaid!" She grabbed Sam's arm, eliciting a little squawk from him. "I'm Sam's date!"

Dotsie gave them a suspicious stare. "Are you living in sin?" she enquired.

"No! No!" Sam yelped, "Absolutely not! In fact, I refuse to be with her without a chaperone. And preferably a weapon," he added under his breath, as Great-Aunt Dotsie smiled in approval.

"Hello, Miss Jaeger and Miss Jaeger," intoned Castiel formally, "I am Castiel. I am an a… acquaintance of Ronnie's, here to provide support to her during her wedding ritual."

"He's going to be her bridesman!" enthused Becky.

Andrew looked confused. "Uh, does she know that?" he asked quietly.

Dotsie gave Castiel a knowing look. "Ah," she commented, "I see…"

"Ignore that old prude," Sadie scowled at her sister, "This is the twenty-first century, young man, and you'll be welcome here. Are you bringing a…special friend?"

"Cas is Dean's 'special friend'," Sam offered with earnest helpfulness.

"What?!" Dean yapped at his brother.

"Oh, yeah, totally," Becky enthused, "They share a profound bond!"

"And he has such nice short hair," Sadie noted with satisfaction, "Even if it's a little bit messy, see, Andreas, you can have short hair and still be untidy if you wish…"

"Good morning! Good morning!" An earnest voice with a hint of drawl preceded a middle-aged lady of considerable dimensions who put the bust into bustle as she did just that into the sitting room. "The staff told me we had some late night arrivals yesterday…"

"Uh, guys, this is Mrs Rafferty, the proprietor," Andrew introduced her.

"Oh, please, call me Bedelia," she smiled, "Mrs Rafferty makes me sound even older than I feel some days! Welcome to Crossair House!" She shook hands. "We are so looking forward to helping make Andrew and Veronica's big day memorable!"

"Oh, I'm sure it will be," Dean grinned. Sam gave him another kick in the leg.

"I was about to tell Sam," Bobby cut in, maybe taking pity on the Winchesters and offering an escape route, "That the study upstairs has some real esoteric old books," he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, "And if it would be all right for him to take a look, I think he'd find some of them real interestin'."

"You'd be welcome to browse," Mrs Rafferty offered, "Provided you're careful. Some of those books are very old indeed, and Dr Molloy, who built this place, had some strange fancies. He was something of an occultist," she intoned with amusement, "And after the Civil War, he collected all sorts of strange things."

"Really?" said Sam. "I see you've got some amazing artefact displays already."

"Well, there were several battles hereabouts, in the south of the state," Mrs Rafferty told him, sounding like someone who was warming to a favourite subject, "And we are always finding things in the grounds. Why, just six months ago, when we had to do some maintenance with the sewage system, we had a whole new batch of the most amazing finds! The place was just crawling with archaeologists, and we've only just put some of them on display, and there are a whole load of them still being catalogued by the eggheads…"

"I'm sure Sam would just love to spend some time in that study," suggested Dean, "Sometimes, I think he loves books more than he loves Becky!"

"Yes, yes I do," Sam nodded vigorously.

"Well, I can show you the way," offered Mrs Rafferty. "Oh, and remember to watch out for our resident ghost!"

"Ghost?" chorused the Winchesters.

Mrs Rafferty gave them a cheeky smile. "Oh, yes, we have our very own in-house wandering spirit!" she positively chirped, "I've never seen her myself, but staff members and guests swear that they have!"

"Her?" enquired Bobby.

"It's the sad, lonely spirit of a servant," Mrs Rafferty sighed, "Whose sweetheart went off to the war, and never came back. She's said to have died of grief. I'll show you the way, Sam."

Dean made his escape, saying he wanted to walk Jimi, and Andrew took the opportunity to follow him.

"Ghost?" he demanded.

"Relax," Andrew said, "There's no ghost. We checked it out. It's just part of the folklore about this place. There is no record of it doing anything except appear wherever suggestible individuals are seeing things. Besides, if an angry spirit had been lurking around here for, what, a hundred and fifty years, if it was causing any real trouble, a Hunter would've dealt with it by now."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean shrugged. "I don't want this to turn into a working vacation. Not with so many civilians around." He stared hard at the werewolf. "Speakin' of civilians, how are you doin' with, you know, the Big Hairy Secret?"

"They all remain blissfully ignorant," Andrew assured him.

"Was it really necessary to do this near the full moon?" Dean asked. "Isn't that asking for trouble?"

Andrew smiled. "I got it under control, dude," he stated, "I got the best tutor a werewolf could ask for. So, unless a whole pack of slavering feral wolves arrive and need me to go Alpha on their asses, it's no problemo."

"Well, good," grunted Dean. He paused. "Do you still get stuck?"

Andrew gave him a sheepish grin. "Uh, beer helps if I do," he admitted. "Sometimes. I guess my body did just human for a lot longer than Ronnie's did."

"Well, beer can be arranged," Dean grinned, "Especially with your buck's turn coming up!"

Andrew shrugged. "I wasn't really planning on doing much…"

Dean stared in horror. "Come on!" he urged, "You gotta do something to commemorate your last night on Earth as a free man!"

"Why do guys keep saying that?" Andrew wanted to know. "Why do guys keep talking about it as if marriage is some sort of sentence?"

"Well, it is," Dean pointed out, "Seriously, people get less for murder these days. Don't worry, leave it with me, we'll organise something."

"Why does that not reassure me in the least," groaned Andrew. "Just remember this, Winchester, if you try to get me drunk and shave my head, I will disembowel you and offer your heart to my pair-bonded mate…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm so scared," Dean grinned infuriatingly.

"…But first, Great-Aunt Sadie will want to hug you and kiss you thank-you."

Dean's face fell. "Okay, now _that _is a scary thought."

Shuddering at the very thought of being kissed by a woman with an impressive moustache, Dean headed for the Winchesters' room. Maybe he'd get Jimi to find Ronnie, and stir her mercilessly about her bridesmaid and bridesman.

He was just about to turn the key in the lock when he suddenly shivered, and noticed that he could see his breath hanging in the air before him.

He barely bothered to throw a glance back over his shoulder as he dived into the room, which was just as well – if he'd been any slower, the musket ball that whizzed past would've hit him.

As the bang of the discharge faded away, he peeled himself off the carpet with a groan as Jimi sprang to the doorway, growling. With a deep sigh, Dean rechecked the salt lines in the room, then pulled out his cell.

"Sam? Get your overloaded brain down here, I need to pick it for details on the soldiers of the Civil War. And see if you can find a rolled up newspaper on the way - there's a certain werewolf I want to smack on the nose with it."

* * *

Ah yes, Great-Aunts Sadie and Dotsie, two more throwaway-line characters who have come back to bite me on the sit-upon. Jimiverse characters seem to have a habit of doing that...

Bruce, what the hell are you doing? I think this plot bunny might be suffering from some sort of post-Christmas mince pie intoxication, because he's clearly nuts. Or planning something. It can be hard to tell, with plot bunnies. Anyway, that was a nice long one, wasn't it (as Dean once said to a lady acquaintance he was entertaining), so feed Bruce more reviews to fuel him onward! Reviews are the Welcome Escape Routes From The Embarrassing Relatives Encountered At The Important Family Occasions Of Life!


	13. Chapter 12

This morning - it's 2014 Down Here now - I was cruising through the Cheezburgers for the day and noticed this:

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** cheezburger**DOTCOM** /7974184448?ref=whatspopularfooter

and had two thoughts:

- if Ronnie was a gaming character, she'd look like the one on the right in the last panel (with more scarring)

- I bet I could name at least half a dozen Denizens who'd campaign to see Dean in the outfit on the left (including pout). (Seriously, who the hell would go off to slay a dragon wearing not enough fabric to make a decent sized hankie? Yes, yes, all right, as somebody who once played AD&D with a character named Lobsterman – he was half orc and half human – and insisted that he was dressed in a chainmail bikini because I didn't want to be judgmental just because he wasn't real, maybe I shouldn't be casting aspersions. His Handbag Of Continual Light did come in handy at times, though, even the other members of the party had to admit that.)

Le sigh. Denizens. They has teh depraved.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

After Dean called Sam, then Bobby, he called Andrew and Ronnie, partly because they needed to hold a council of war, but mostly to tell the happy couple how crappy their research had been.

"Where's Cas?" asked Sam, giving his brother an eloquent look that clearly suggested Dean had better not be goofing around because he'd been having a pretty good time with those old books.

"Cas?" queried Ronnie, watching Jimi and Joni exchange fond butt-sniffs then start a companionable growl-wrestle, "Cas, as in Castiel, Angel-Of-The-Lord, Warrior-Of-Heaven, Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom, Personal Space means your own set of _Cosmos_ boxed DVDs, Bonded Profoundly with Dean?" Sam nodded. "What's he doing here?"

"Dean called him to get his hair fixed," Sam's expression stopped beating around the bush and formed into an actual Bitchface™, being #7 (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?).

Ronnie and Andrew gaped at Dean. "You… you called on Castiel, an angel, the one who's currently running Heaven, because you wanted him to fix your _hair_?" Andrew's tone was a mixture of disbelief and horror. "_That's_ why he's here?"

"Well, originally," Dean waved a hand airily.

"I don't believe it," muttered Ronnie, "I don't be-frigging-lieve it. Just when I think your ego cannot possibly get any bigger, you go and give it another shot of illegal steroids." She shook her head. "I didn't even ask St Hubert or St Patrick for help when I got bitten, because I didn't think the problem was serious enough!"

"Who's St Hubert?" asked Sam.

"Patron saint of those afflicted by dog bites," Bobby answered immediately. "That I get, but why St Patrick? Because your mother's heritage is Irish?"

"Patron saint of engineers," shrugged Ronnie, "I'm pretty sure he was listening when I was studying for a couple of physics and applied maths exams. The point is, the point is, Castiel's a very busy Angel of the Lord – you can't just go pestering the bloke running Heaven because you've washed your hair and you can't do a thing with it!"

"It's your fault," sniffed Dean disdainfully, "You hassled me about my hair."

"What?" Ronnie bristled. "It's not my fault! You were being prissy about a few blonde streaks that were hardly visible!" She looked worried. "Crap, we should apologise," she muttered, looking to Sam, "Have you apologised to him?"

"Well," Sam looked sheepish, "He's actually looking forward to your wedding."

Ronnie blinked. "Yerwhat?" she said.

"Well," Sam threw a look at Andrew, "The thing is, Becky has invited him to be your, uh, bridesman. And he's always interested in human rituals and ceremonies. Plus, he does have, er, relevant experience, technically."

Ronnie glared at Dean. "This is your fault!" she snapped.

"No it's not!" he shot back, "It's your fault! For not eating Becky when you had the chance!"

"Maybe the Great-Aunts will do it," suggested Sam hopefully. "Last we saw, she and Cas were sitting and talking to them."

"Oh, no," moaned Andrew, "They'll be telling embarrassing stories about things I did when I was little…"

"Like the wearing of a cousin's nightie?" prompted Dean brightly.

Andrew smiled pleasantly. "I've never actually offered my mate a human heart," he said, "When a male does that, it's like handing over a big bunch of roses, tied up with a diamond necklace, with the keys to a Ferrari dangling from the clasp."

"Rowwrrrrr big boy," purred Ronnie.

"Sounds like the sex afterwards would be spectacular, too," commented Dean, utterly unrepentant.

"Oh, God," wailed Sam, "Who's the patron saint of impossibly disgusting brothers?"

"Saint Eugene de Mazenod does dysfunctional families," answered Bobby, "But here's an idea, and I know it's really out there: why don't we get back to the reason for this little gatherin'?"

"Yeah, right," agreed Dean, "Which is to tell you that Rin Tin Tin and Lassie here are totally crap at research, because either I was almost collateral damage from the Civil War re-enactment that nobody bothered to mention, or I nearly got shot by some asshole ghost!"

"What? Crap," snapped Ronnie, "We looked into it. The whole crying girl thing, the heartbroken servant, there's no suggestion that it's real. It's people seeing things, and somebody knowing the value of a good marketing gimmick when they see one."

"Well this was real," Dean insisted, "The temperature dropped more than ten degrees in an instant – I could see my breath."

"Let's assume that he's a Hunter who knows a restless spirit when he sees one," Bobby suggested, "Bein' as it's too early in the day even for Dean to have a skinful…"

"Not necessarily," muttered Sam, as Dean let out a bark of outrage.

"…So let's start with what you actually saw," Bobby finished, rolling his eyes and possibly beseeching The Almighty to send another huge bucketful of patience, and maybe several cups of forbearance.

"I didn't get a real good look," Dean said, "Because I was too busy gettin' the hell out of the way when I saw a longarm bein' pointed at me, but it was a Civil War dude."

"A Civil War dude?" echoed Sam.

"Yeah, you know," Dean waved his hands. "A Civil War dude. Forage cap, a canteen, and a really pissed expression."

"What side?" pressed Sam.

"Hard to say," Dean shrugged. "Like I said, I was busy gettin' out of the way."

"A Union uniform that was muddy, or faded, could look pretty similar to a Confederate one, with just a glimpse," Andrew pointed out.

"And he shot at you?" queried Bobby. "Did you find the round?"

"Nope," Dean replied, "But I swear I felt it go past me."

"But was it real?" Sam wanted to know, "Was it an actual round, or was it a spectral manifestation?"

"I did look," Dean told them, "But if it stayed real long enough to travel any distance, it might well have gone out the window."

Ronnie groaned. "Oh, bugger me," she sighed, "Just when I think we've found the place to have a quiet, minimum-fuss, small affair with some family and a few friends, I get the clueless bridesmaid from Hell…"

"We got no evidence that Crowley sent her," Bobby reminded them.

"…An equally-clueless-in-his-own-Sheldon-Cooper-way bridesman from Heaven, the forecast of a buckette's night with occasional cringing, and now a pissed off dead bloke. I can't even get married normally! Any other bride would just be worried about the bridesmaids having a punch-up about shoes, the groom being hungover and throwing up during the ceremony, and some elderly relative having too much to drink and dancing on the table until she loses her knickers!"

"Sadie and Dotsie drink like sailors," Andrew said gloomily, "And I've never seen either of them drink enough even to slur a word – the only thing that'll get hammered is the bar tab. And as for losing their underwear, I suspect that they staple themselves into 'em every morning, so…"

"Well, the point is," Bobby interrupted, "We know we got an honest-to-Cas spirit to deal with. What we gotta do is figure out who it is, or at least where it is, then deal with it."

"Without letting anybody else know what we're doing," Sam reminded him.

"Yeah, yeah," Ronnie sighed philosophically, "One more salt and burn." She gave Dean a speculative look. "At least this spirit only shot at Dean, so it may not be that much of a problem unless it goes after somebody else."

"Play nice," murmured Andrew with a reproving frown as Dean pulled a face at Ronnie. He checked his watch. "We got more people expected today," he reminded them, "So I'll have to do a certain amount of meeting and greeting, and Mom will want to monopolise the bride-to-be…"

Ronnie looked sheepish. "Er, I think Mrs J. is doing mother-of-the-bride vicariously, seeing as she only had sons," she explained.

"That's a good sign," encouraged Bobby.

"She's been kind of obsessed with my shoes," Ronnie admitted. "I don't know why. I think it's something that normal people might fuss over on these occasions. Seriously, she's worrying about so many details on my behalf, I should just let her do it all." She paused, then brightened. "Maybe I can tell her how the bridesmaid is driving me nuts," she said hopefully, "And she'll go, how dare that giggling idiot threaten to spoil my little boy's big day, and she'll boot her out?"

"Not a chance," Andrew replied gloomily, "Mom will be just thrilled to find out that you've got a bridesmaid. She and Becky will probably team up on your for hairstyle trials. And she'll go ga-ga for Castiel."

Dean sniggered unkindly as Ronnie looked stricken.

"Well, there's three of us," Bobby said firmly, "And we can poke around, ask questions, see if there's anything useful in the library or that study. Like I said, first we gotta find out who we're dealin' with, then we gotta find out what's keepin' him here, then we gotta do the salt-and-burn.

"This is new," Sam pointed out, "There's been no reports before of an angry spirit tryin' to hurt anyone, just the story about the servant girl, so something has changed."

"So somethin' is different," nodded Dean. "Somethin' has, what, provoked, or disturbed, this guy?" He looked speculatively at Ronnie and Andrew.

"Don't look at us," Andrew said, "We haven't been doing anything, like, oh, dancing naked on the lawn after midnight whistling _The Battle Hymn of the Republic_ or _Dixie_. Or at least, I haven't." He looked to Ronnie. "And if you have, I want to know why I wasn't invited…" he ended with a yelp as Ronnie elbowed him.

"Just the presence of a Hunter might possibly have done it," Bobby theorised doubtfully, "Saltin' sills and doors, carryin' items of a decidedly anti-occult nature, I aint heard of it before, but I suppose it could happen."

"I've never raised a ghost before by just being there," Ronnie pointed out, "It would've made some jobs a lot easier if all I had to do was stand there and let the ooga-boogas come to me."

"They have memorabilia and Civil War relics all over the place," Sam groaned, "Even furniture. If it's an artefact of some sort, the only way to take care of this spirit will be to salt and burn the whole damned building!"

"No," Bobby shook his head, "Like Dean said, somethin' has changed. This is a recent development."

"What about a significant anniversary?" suggested Andrew. "Is the timing important?"

"Mrs Rafferty did say that they often find things in the grounds," Sam recalled, "And the digging for sewer maintenance earlier this year turned up some things."

"If it's something to do with one of those finds, why hasn't Billy Yank or Johnny Reb already popped up and scared the shit out of some earnest geek in a lab coat?" queried Ronnie. "Why wait until now?"

"Maybe he did," Dean suggested, "Maybe he already scared the shit out of some lab nerd, who ran screaming, then put it down to drinking too much Red Bull and doing too much online wargaming."

"Anything like that happened, eventually produced a casualty, or even enough sightings, a Hunter would come to hear of it, and go fix the problem," Bobby stated. "That's how this job works. In which case, this location must be significant."

"That's if it even turns out to be some object," sighed Andrew, scratching Jimi and Joni's ears as they finished their rassling and decided to pester the softest touch in the room for pats.

"Well, if it is, and it's recent, the location could be important to the guy," Bobby said firmly, "So I guess we can look for any individuals who might have felt some connection to this place." He looked to Dean. "You got no idea whether he was Union or Confederate? That might narrow it down some."

"I couldn't swear to either one," Dean shrugged regretfully.

"There might be a way to find out," offered Andrew thoughtfully.

"Yeah?" Bobby raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Andrew continued, turning to Ronnie with a bright smile. "Howsabout, tonight, you and me, we get naked after midnight, and go dance around on the lawn whistli- OW!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Castiel announced, somewhat regretfully, that he had duties to attend to in Heaven, but assured Ronnie that he would return to take part in all aspects of the occasion (to her credit, she managed a smile, or at least bared her teeth in a friendly way). By common consent, they decided to leave Becky out of the research, fearing that little would get done if she tried to 'help' (besides which, the thought of her somehow contriving to be alone in a room with Sam made his eye start to twitch again). They left her to talk to the Great-Aunts, and later peck away at her laptop, giggling to herself.

Bobby and the Winchesters spent most of the day combing through the many books that the main library held, while Dean took a keen interest in the stories of the place, including the various items on show and the people who were the main characters in the narrative. Later in the day, Mrs Rafferty was delighted to have such a keen audience, and after welcoming Andrew's parents and one of his Army buddies to the guest house, she was only too glad to wax lyrical on the subject.

"Oh, this house has seen such history, Mr Winchester!" she enthused. "I don't know if we'll ever unravel the full story here!"

"Dean, please," he told her, "So, which side of the war was this place on?" he asked, perusing a beautifully preserved example of a cavalry officer's saber and scabbard in a glass case.

"Oh, neither," she replied, "Dr Molloy was staunchly against tackling the matters of Abolition and Sectionalism via warfare. I think it offended his sense of rationalism, as an educated man. He wrote as much in his journals. Used some very colourful language to describe the politicians of the day – some of it's in Latin, which I think he used when he was worried that English might scorch the paper! Southern Missouri was right on the line where many battles were fought, but he refused to let either side bivouac on his property, and he was a man of great force of will." She indicated a faded sepia image of a stern-looking man in the well-cut clothes of a well-to-do mid-nineteenth century gentleman.

"So, he never took a commission then?" Dean asked, studying the severe and yet somehow sad expression on the long-deceased man.

Mrs Rafferty shook her head. "Oh no, he was a pacifist," she replied. "In fact, he turned the original house into something of a hospital for casualties, and with a group of like-minded colleagues, he treated the wounded from either side. He once told an officer that he didn't care whether a patient was black or white, or blue or grey, they were all red once they were torn open."

"The original house?" Dean pressed.

"Oh, yes," Bedelia continued, "The first house was built some distance from here, but it was razed after the war. There was some suggestion that Dr Molloy may have had a hand in destroying his own home – the war affected him terribly, I think it might've unbalanced his mind somewhat. We can't imagine today the things he would've seen as a doctor before the advent of modern medicine. He developed an interest in the occult afterwards, maybe as a way of trying to make sense of it all."

"Where was the original house?" asked Dean.

"I can show you on the map," she smiled, "There's really nothing left, it burned to the foundations, but it's a lovely spot for a walk, or a picnic."

As if on cue, Dean's stomach rumbled. "You just used one of my favourite words ever, Bedelia," he grinned engagingly.

He reported his conversation back to Bobby and Sam over dinner.

"Well, aint that interestin'," mused Bobby, "A house that was used as a Civil War hospital. Medicine back then wasn't pretty – more men died from sickness than from injuries."

"It does sound like fertile ground for an unquiet spirit," Dean agreed.

"Dr Molloy was definitely informing himself with occult matters," Sam pointed out, "He's got some books here I've never seen except in Bobby's collection."

"It might be worth checking out," Dean said, "We should go tonight. If there's a ghost to be provoked, if we gotta do it, after dark when there are no civilians around is probably our best bet." He looked out the window. "It'll be dark soon. We should finish up here, then head out. Just as soon as I have some pie."

"Right," humphed Sam sourly, "We've got an angry ghost who could be using real ammunition, but first, you gotta have pie."

"Priorities, Sam, priorities," Dean grinned infuriatingly, "Any job could be my last! Any Hunt could be the end of me! If I'm gonna die, I wanna do it on a full stomach." He sniffed deeply. "Plus, that right there is apple and cinnamon."

After Dean had consumed two helpings of pie, with cream and ice-cream, and suitably pornographic noises of enjoyment to annoy Sam, he mapped out the location of the ruined house on a paper napkin.

"We'll need salt rounds, and the usual stuff," Sam mused, "I'd like to check the location of this house on GPS, see if it means anything."

"Fine," Dean waved a hand, "You go do that, I'll go get the EMF meter."

He headed for the car, Jimi at his heels, and was ratting around in the trunk for the well-used piece of ghost-detection kit, when his attention was suddenly caught by a noise. It sounded suspiciously like somebody crying.

"Hello?" he called, approaching the trees, "Is somebody there?" Jimi peered into the woodland, and whined. Then there was nothing but silence.

"Great," grumped Dean, tramping back towards the Impala, "Now I'm hearing things. No hot chick in distress for me to comfort… Jimi?"

At his side, Jimi was growling in the low, almost-subsonic tone that travelled through ground rather than air. Dean looked up. His dog's eyes were glowing gently red.

Beyond Jimi, a tall man appeared out of the shadows. He had a grim expression. And he had a weapon. He had them both pointed at Dean.

Dean didn't need the EMF meter: he felt the chill of the temperature plummeting.

"Drop!" hissed the figure as it drew a bead on him.

Instead, Dean dived sideways for the trunk of the Impala, scrabbling for a weapon.

The gun went off.

* * *

What the hell is Bruce the plot bunny up to now? He's being a mysterious little leporid, an obtuse oryctolagid, a furtive furry, a baffling bunny, a recondite rodent - feed him reviews, because

1) they make the bunny dictate more,

2) being the spoiled fickriter that I am, I am accustomed to at least ten reviews per chapter, which I notice we have not been managing in recent weeks *sniff sniff* - I suppose that Jimiverse Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In must go on holidays like normal people.

3) Reviews are the Delicious Pieces Of Pie With Which To Fortify Yourself Before You Must Go Up Against The Upleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality!*

*Yes, yes, all right, those of you who went and checked out the link at the beginning of the chapter can have it served to you by the Winchester/Angel/Demon Of Your Choice In The Gaming Character Outfit Of Your Choice. I bet none of you decide on plate mail...


	14. Chapter 13

**Lampito:** In order to make Leahelisabeth feel better, I'm afraid we're going to have to hurt Sam a bit.

**Sam:** Hey! That's not fair!

**Lampito:** Hmmmmm, you're probably right. Okay, we'll hurt Dean a bit, too.

**Dean:** Nice going, genius.

**Lampito:** It could've been worse; at least nobody actually wanted to see you in that gaming character outfit from the Cheezburger site.

**Dean:** AAAAAARGH!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

As Dean scrabbled in the trunk for one of the cut-off shotguns and the salt rounds, he felt a sting above his hip, and heard the sound of small shot whizzing past overhead. Swearing to himself, he came up snarling, levelling the weapon at the tall figure that was now standing right next to him.

The grim-faced apparition swatted the barrel away as if in annoyance. "Not me, idiot child," it snapped again, grabbing Dean by the shoulder to spin him around to face the other way, "That!"

'That' was a Civil War soldier, who flickered like an unsteady 8-mm projector image. The unkempt figure, which had been kneeling, stood, and brought a longarm to its shoulder.

Dean's unexpected companion lifted his own weapon, and fired first. The long-dead soldier disappeared in a cloud of expanding rock salt.

Dean realised that it was a real person standing next to him when the guy grabbed his arm again, and without preamble, demanded, "Are you hit?"

"Huh?" Dean's brain scrabbled to catch up with events.

"Did he hit you?" the man repeated, turning Dean around. "Are you shot?"

Dean felt cold hands grabbing at the small of his back. "Dude!" he yelped angrily, "At least buy me dinner first!"

"Grazed," his unexpected companion muttered, more to himself than Dean, "Come on, you've put down salt inside, yes?"

"Yeah," Dean scanned the area, wincing at the sting in his wound, "Although I wasn't expecting…"

"Dean!" Dean's head snapped around in horror as he saw his brother standing on the other side of the car. "What's the hold-up? Did I hear…?"

The bearded man who'd suddenly appeared raised his own shotgun again, barking at Sam to get down – Sam, however, seeing a weapon levelled at him, went for his own gun, and got a shot off.

"SAM!" Dean yelled, seeing the soldier materialise behind his baby brother. "Watch out!"

Too late, Sam realised that he was worrying about the wrong target.

The shot was more flash than bang, but from his reaction it was clear that it found its target. Sam let out a startled yelp, and clutched his left arm.

Dean ran to his brother, as the stranger swore volubly and blasted the Civil War infantryman once more. The ghost wavered, then disappeared.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!" hissed Sam, his knees buckling as Dean tore at his sleeve, "Aaaaargh, that fucking hurts!"

"Hang on, Sammy," instructed Dean, wadding up the plaid fabric to use as a dressing.

"It's not safe out here," stated the stranger, "We gotta get back inside – Sam, wasn't it? I'll have a look at your arm. And that graze. Dean."

Sam swayed, and Dean got an arm around his shoulder. "Hey, hey, I gotcha," he reassured his brother, "I gotcha."

"Let's go," instructed the older man, putting a hand to Sam's other shoulder.

"Hey!" Dean snapped angrily, turning to face the interloper, "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I'm not lettin' you lay a hand on him!"

The tall figure sighed, but didn't let go of Sam. "Ah, Ronnie warned me about you," he nodded, steering Sam in the direction of the guest house. "You can rant at me when we've seen to your brother's arm, okay?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean growled dangerously.

The taller man grinned mirthlessly. "Sorry, seeing people almost get killed by restless spirits tends to make me forget my manners." He started them walking. "I'm Ian Gregson, and just so you know, I can kick Ronnie's ass to the kerb, which means I could eat you for breakfast, so now that's out of the way, can we forego the he-man pissing contest, and can you call Ronnie and tell her I'll need my bag from the truck? That'd be ever so helpful."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean had Sam lying on his bed, sleeve torn off and protesting that it wasn't that bad, by the time Ronnie found her way to their room, carrying a black doctor's bag. Her face lit up, and she gave Ian a hug that was brief, but one of the most genuine displays of affection the Winchesters had ever seen her demonstrate.

"So, are you gonna tell me who this asshole is?" griped Dean.

"This is Ian," Ronnie explained, "My Hunt buddy for, what, ten years…"

"For my sins," Ian sighed melodramatically as he opened his bag.

"… Shut up, you, after I arrived in the States," she finished. "That's Doctor Gregson to you."

"Oh, he can call me Ian," the older man said cheerfully, "Since I'm going to be lifting his shirt quite soon, I think we're past the whole formal address thing, don't you, Mr Winchester?"

"Great," muttered Dean, "Just great, so you're the one who taught her to be such a smartass?"

"No, she was like that when I found her," Ian replied, smiling at Sam, "So, do I have to give you a lollipop to get you to hold still?"

"I think I can manage," Sam smiled weakly.

"Good man," grunted Ian, opening a pack of gauze and picking up a bottle of peroxide, "Ronnie got nicked where you've been hit, once, and she screamed like a five-year-old being told that the trip to Disneyland has been cancelled…"

"I did not!" yapped Ronnie indignantly, as Ian began to clean Sam's wound.

"I'm afraid you did," Ian told her sadly. "It wasn't even as deep as this. It wasn't even silver. You screamed, and I hesitate to say it, like a little bitch…"

"I didn't," muttered Ronnie, glaring at Dean as he grinned at her. "It stung, all right?" she added defensively.

"And as if having you there with your teeth popping out wasn't bad enough," Ian went on relentlessly as he cleaned the gouging wound on Sam's arm, "I had Mako snarling at me, getting all ready to jump to the defence of his poor, suffering Alpha. That dog hated me, you know," he confided. "He used to piss on my boots every chance he got."

"Mako hated everybody," Ronnie shrugged. "That was just how he rolled."

"Ugly as sin, with the personality to match," Ian opined. "The dog, I mean. Well, mostly." Ronnie pulled a face at him behind his back. "Incidentally," he went on casually, as she surreptitiously lifted a flask from the bag, "If you open that, I will end you."

Ronnie made a pleading noise. "Pleeeeeeeeease?" she actually whined. "You always have such good booze."

"It's wasted on you," Ian said serenely, "So, looks like you've gotten off lightly here, Sam, laceration of the lateral deltoid."

"Looks like it's real rounds then," griped Dean, "Just peachy."

"Well, there goes telling any civilians that it's just re-enactors," humphed Sam, wincing again.

"It could've been a lot worse," Ian told them as he cleaned and examined the gouge, "The weapon misfired. That probably saved you a lot of grief – a direct hit from a Minié ball could destroy a limb. This, at least, if anyone notices, you'll be able to make up a plausible cover story." He began to dress the wound. "The laceration I can dress, but it's gonna leave a hell of a bruise. Solid shot like that, you're looking at blunt trauma as much as wounding."

"Oh, the fun just never stops," groaned Dean, as Sam hissed in discomfort again. "Next time, can you get married somewhere where the worst thing we have to worry about is gettin' confetti out of our hair?"

"I'm guessing you know the drill," Ian told Sam, "Keep it dry, keep it clean, try to rest that arm – no weightlifting drills until it's healed." He fished through his bag. "I'll give you some antibiotics, and some painkillers; if you're gonna have any chance of hiding that, you'll need 'em."

"Thanks, uh, Doc," said Sam, gingerly testing his arm.

"Just Ian," the older man grinned, "I haven't been officially 'Doc' for a long time now." He turned to Dean. "So, Winchester the Elder, do you wanna lie down, or just lift your shirt and assume the position?"

"If you haven't been officially a doctor for a long time, what are you doing, uh, doctoring on people?" demanded Dean.

"It's not something you forget how to do," Ian assured him. "Like riding a bicycle. I haven't done that for a very long time either, but I could still do it. Like shooting a gun. Or swimming. Or flying a chopper…"

"You told me the last time you flew a chopper, you crashed," Ronnie reminded at him.

"I did not!" Ian replied adamantly. "I was shot down. It's very different. Anyway, I've stayed in practice with the doctoring thing, and I remember enough to know that any gunshot wound has to be dealt with promptly. So," he raised his eyebrows at Dean. "Do I have to break out the lollipops after all?"

Muttering mutinously, Dean turned around and pulled his shirt out of the way.

"Should I go and get Becky?" Ronnie asked brightly.

"Only if you want to die slowly, horribly but terribly amusingly," growled Dean.

"Do I even want to know?" queried Ian.

"No," Dean snapped, "Let's just say, Madam Maugrim and Good Dog Carl are not the only unnatural freaks hereeeEEEEEEEE!" His voice rose to a squawk. "Cold hands!"

"Sorry," Ian muttered, examining the wide graze across Dean's lower back. "Damn. You got some debris lodged here," he remarked, "Off the round, probably. I'm afraid it'll need a bit of debridement."

"Fuck," sighed Dean, "It's just not my day."

"Get the light, Ronnie," Ian instructed; Dean was amazed at how she moved immediately to follow his instructions with a complete lack of smartass remarks. "You might want to lie down for this. I've got the good stuff, which will help, but I'm afraid it's going to hurt."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Ronnie was cleaning up the detritus of wound care while Ian gave Sam pills and instructions.

"He'll need them too," Ian jerked a thumb at Dean, "That was deeper than I'd initially thought."

"But you roasted the wiggly book carpet pies, didn't you?" asked Dean anxiously.

Ian's left eyebrow shot up.

"He did, he roasted 'em all," Sam reassured his brother, "It's all good, bro."

Ian's right eyebrow shot up.

"He, uh, get's a bit," Sam waved his right hand vaguely, "You know, loopy with systemic painkillers."

"I don't!" complained Dean, "It's not my fault if the Pakistani sofas get salty mailboxes!"

Understanding dawned on Ian's face. "Don't worry about it, Dean," he reassured his patient. "Those sofas had mailboxes to start with."

"Well, yeah," Dean subsided, mollified, "They were already pregnant, right?"

"Absolutely," Sam nodded.

"So there's no need for snowy parsnips to go skiing on toffee cushions," Dean insisted.

"No need at all," Ian agreed.

"But we can keep the balloons with the sprinkly mice, okay?" Dean said hopefully. "The ones with the little teapot sailboats that go boi-oi-oi-oing and jump off the opera?"

"Sure," Ian said, "Keep 'em all."

Dean seemed happy with that. He smiled sunnily at Ronnie. "Hi!" he chirped, "Are you the nurse?"

Ronnie smiled back. "No," she replied pleasantly, "I'm a werewolf. I'm waiting for moonrise, so I can come back here and eat you all up."

Dean's face became a mask of horror. "Sam!" he warbled, "Sam! Saaaaaaam! There's a werewolf in here!"

"Dean! Keep your voice down!" snapped Sam.

Dean grabbed his arm, and pointed. "She's a werewolf!" he insisted, "She's a werewolf! She's going to eat me!"

"Nice going, idiot child," Ian growled at Ronnie, "Why don't you get out of here before I whack you with a rolled-up newspaper?"

Ronnie made a scoffing noise. "You and whose army?" she demanded loftily, as Sam assured Dean that he would just step out briefly to stab the werewolf.

"Me and my left armee," Ian told her, "And me and my right armee. Go on, or I'll use the Sunday paper." She stuck out her tongue at him, then left.

Sam gave the erstwhile doctor a curious look. "So, you're the mysterious Ian," he murmured.

"Not so mysterious," Ian smiled, "I think we've met before. Although you probably wouldn't remember – you slept through it."

"I did?" Sam blinked. "How? What was Dean doing?"

"Holding you in his lap, and sleeping with you," Ian replied, "Seeing as you were only about eighteen months old. Your father was looking for information."

"You met our Dad?" Sam cut in. "You remember meeting our Dad?"

"And I remember the car," Ian confirmed, "Just another poor bastard dragged into this life." His face became sad. "I hoped he'd find what he was chasing before you two grew up, and get out," he confided. "I gotta say, I'm kind of disappointed it didn't work out that way."

Sam gave him a wry grin. "We were never goin' to have a fair shot at anything resembling 'normal'," he suggested. "It would've been nice to meet you under less, uh, dramatic circumstances."

Ian laughed, a rumble of genuine amusement. "I'm supposed to be introduced to The Great Aunts tomorrow," he mentioned, "You could join us for pleasant chit-chat, if you like."

"You're on your own with that one," Sam shuddered, "Although Bobby seems to get along with them. Mind you, he can get along with just about anybody in a skirt, it seems." He gave Ian a thoughtful look. "That was impressive – Ronnie, I mean. I don't think Andrew in full metal Alpha mode could make Ronnie do something. Hell, I don't think Bobby could make Ronnie do something."

"She does have a stubborn streak a mile wide," Ian agreed, "It's what's kept her alive all this time. That, and her dogs." His face became grim. "After Arko died, I really thought I was gonna lose her. It was like she'd lost a part of herself, and she just didn't want to live any more. Old North wolves do that, sometimes," he added, "If they lose their pack, or their pair-bond." He brightened up. "Speaking of which, I was more surprised than anybody when she paired up." He gave Sam an arch look. "Dramatic circumstances notwithstanding."

"Don't remind me," groaned Sam, sitting down. "I'm not kidding, I nearly crapped myself the first time I saw Andrew up close and personal in, er, plain clothes. You really knew Mako, then?"

"Yeah," Ian grinned, "And let me say that, the first time I saw him up close and personal, I nearly crapped myself." He shook his head fondly. "We learned to get along," he said.

"Yeah?" Sam said dubiously. "How?"

"Let's just say, we arrived at a gentlemen's agreement," mused Ian. "He refrained from tearing me to bloodied shreds, and I refrained from emptying every magazine I have into his warped and unnatural carcass. He still pissed on my boots, though. At least, I'm pretty certain it was him – Ronnie knows how to hold a grudge."

"Not a dog person then, huh?" sympathised Sam.

"Oh, I don't mind dogs," Ian said hurriedly, "I had them myself, before… in a previous life," he corrected himself. "I think the problem wasn't that I'm not a dog person; Mako wasn't a person dog. Arko, though, the one after him, he was the polar opposite – have you ever seen a photo of him? Same direct bloodline, but he was everything that Mako wasn't: his proportions were perfect, he was handsome, he had the sweetest nature, he was a truly happy soul, and he loved everybody. A bit like your boy there, I suspect," Ian nodded at Jimi, who had climbed onto Dean's bed to keep his Alpha company.

"So, how did you and Ronnie first meet?" asked Sam, curious.

Ian gave him an appraising look, then gestured to him to sit down. "Well, that's an interesting story," he started, taking the flask he'd told Ronnie to leave alone out of his bag, "And if you promise me you'll only take a single dose of those analgesics, I'll share."

"It's a deal," answered Sam. "None for you, bro," he said to Dean, "Not with what you've got in your system already. Although I think your liver would just laugh it off."

"I don't care," Dean replied airily, snuggling up to Jimi, "I got my wiggly sniggly bongo fish inflater right here, and I'm not sharing." Jimi let out a gentle whuff, and kissed Dean on the nose. "I love you," Dean murmured contentedly to his dog.

"That's cool, then," Sam fetched two glasses from the sideboard, and Ian poured what turned out to be a very good single malt. "So, she had Mako when you met?"

"Uh-huh," Ian smiled fondly in recollection. "I was on the trail of either a wendigo or a werewolf – yeah, guess who – when I pulled out my gun and was preparing to shoot a naked woman who was waiting to drop out of a tree and twist my head off…"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Ian had a talent for telling a tale, and swore that he didn't embroider it at all; Sam believed him. After all, it sounded exactly like the sort of self-introduction that Ronnie would make. By the time he finished, the flask was lighter, and Dean was snoring blissfully.

"You should hit the sack yourself," Ian looked at his watch, "Tomorrow there will be Jaegers to meet, and a buck's night to plan."

"Andrew's not goin' for it," Sam told him.

"Oh, we'll talk him around," Ian said serenely. "It's been great to finally meet Joni's brother's pack. Goodnight, Dean," he called quietly.

"Eat a swan magnet, hula hips," muttered Dean by way of farewell.

Leaving the Winchesters' room, he headed for Ronnie's room. She was waiting for him.

"Why didn't you say?" she demanded in a worried voice, as Lita nuzzled at his leg.

"They didn't notice, there didn't seem to be any reason to draw attention to it," he told her in a firm tone. "I barely noticed. Here," he opened his bag and took out a pair of forceps. "Make yourself useful. You remember how I taught you."

"Of course I do," she grumped, as he pulled of his jacket.

When she'd done as she was bade, he examined the fragment. "Damn," he grunted, "This is only a piece. I need you to go out to the parking lot on the other side of the yard, and see if you can find the rest of it, and the one that winged Sam. _Discreetly_."

"I'm on it," she said, shucking out of her clothes and opening the window. "Turbo nose powers, activate!" She shrugged, and...

The grey monster slipped with amazing litheness over the sill, and into the night.

He looked at the piece of lead, then took a glass from the small table. He put the fragment in it, and poured scotch over it. Then he took out his lighter.

Ian Gregson sat and watched it burn until the blue flame extinguished itself.

* * *

_Lampito does big sad puppy-dog eyes and holds up hand-lettered sign_

_WILL HURT WINCHESTERS  
FOR REVIEWS OR CHOCOLATE_

**Crowley:** What about me, you Antipodean ratbag?

_Lampito considers the question, then adds to her sign_

_WILL WRITE IN CROWLEY AND HURT HIM FOR REVIEWS OR CHOCOLATE_

**Crowley:** I'm a powerful demon, darling, I'm very difficult to hurt.

_Lampito considers that, then scribbles an amendment to her sign_

_WILL WRITE IN CROWLEY AND DAMAGE HIS TIE FOR REVIEWS OR CHOCOLATE_

**Crowley:** Aaaaaaaaaargh!


	15. Chapter 14

WAAAAAAAAAAAAH Don't mind me WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH I have to go back to work tomorrow WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH and I'm not taking it very well WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH...

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

The next day the Winchesters were on deck, suitably dosed with pharmaceuticals, to be groused out as idjits by Bobby before the lunch mixer intended to introduce the wedding attendees to each other. Andrew's parents were an achingly normal couple, who appeared to be completely unaware that their son was, in fact, an unnatural abomination. His brother was on hand to provide embarrassing stories, and Sam reflected that it was a good thing that Andrew was such a good-natured guy, because if it had been a sibling of the bride revealing childhood's less than flattering moments, there would've been fangs popping out.

"It's Middle Child Syndrome," declared Matthew, Andrew's younger brother, "Attention seeking behaviour. Why else would anybody have ridden a bike right off the end of the jetty and into a lake?"

"It was a hot day," Andrew shrugged, "And I didn't want you taking my bike while I wasn't using it."

"It's why he grew up so weird," Matt insisted, "Because he felt ignored and left out."

"Actually, I kind of liked being the middle one," Andrew mused, "It meant that I had a big brother to look out for me, and a little brother to pick on. I always thought it was the best of both worlds."

"Is your older brother coming?" asked Dean.

Andrew smiled sadly. "We lost Connor in Afghanistan," he told them, "But I got a feeling he'll be here in spirit. I think Ronnie would've liked him. They could've swapped dog stories."

"Now there's just us," Matt confirmed, "The weirdo, and the adored baby of the family…"

"Did you just say 'adored baby'?" Andrew asked incredulously.

"For sure," Matt beamed sunnily, "That's how it works, the youngest is always the one who's the favourite…"

"Matthias!" a voice like a demanding klaxon cut through the general conversation, and Matt winced visibly, before plastering a smile on his face and turning to where his great aunts were sitting. Sadie gestured imperiously, and held aloft an empty coffee mug.

"Well, run along, adorable favourite," Andrew clapped his little brother on the shoulder, "The Great Aunts love you so much they want you to do the next coffee run. Don't look at me like that, I've been running around for them since they got here."

"_Arschgesicht_," grumbled Matt, heading to answer his aunts' summons.

"Did your brother just call you a bitch?" asked Dean.

"No, that would be _Miststück_," replied Andrew, "He just called me a jerk-off." He checked the distance to the next knot of people. "Ronnie told me you had a certain amount of excitement last night," he went on, "Are you guys okay?"

"We'll live," Dean grunted, "But this asshole spirit is firin' real rounds. We were gonna head over to the site of the original house – it burned down not long after the war ended – but we didn't get that far."

"I'll keep checking through Dr Molloy's journals," suggested Sam, "See if there's some significant anniversary that falls around now."

"We'll make time to come to your buck's turn, though," Dean grinned.

Andrew rolled his eyes in a positively Samesque fashion. "Will you knock it off? I got Matt on my case, I got Mark and Seth backing him up," he jerked a thumb at two of his buddies, who were enjoying some sort of joke with his father, "I don't really want to do anything…"

There was a brief burst of giggling, and they turned to see Becky arrive with Castiel in tow.

"Hello, Dean," the Angel of the Lord intoned with his usual serious mien.

"Hi, guys!" trilled Becky, as Sam let out a small keening noise, "I was just showing Castiel some of the stuff I've been writing! I'm totally excited about my new direction!"

"It is just as incomprehensible as the other material you have authored," Castiel frowned in confusion, "While it's true that Dean and I share a profound bond, there is absolutely no sexual element to our relationship, and being the one who recalled his body to physical being, I can inform you that there is no way that he would be flexible enough to attempt what you were suggesting in chapter three…"

"Hi, Cas," sighed Dean, "So you're still determined to do the bridesman thing, then?"

"Ronnie has assured me that I need not have my hair braided this time," Castiel explained, "Which will be something of a relief, as it was quite uncomfortable. I must also admit to a certain curiosity about the rituals referred to as 'Bachelorette's Night', which is a celebration undertaken by the bride before she is married. It will be interesting to see whether there are parallels between that and the groom's 'Buck's Night'…"

Becky let out a squeal of delight. "Oh, that would be totally cool if you would do that with us!" she bubbled.

"Uh, you might want to check with the bride that she wants one," suggested Bobby, as Ronnie approached with Mr and Mrs Jaeger in tow.

"Gday, fellas," she gave them a desperate smile that managed to convey the message that if they said anything untoward there would be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth later on, "Have you met Andrew's parents yet?"

"Hello," Mrs Jaeger held out a hand as introductions were made, "We've heard so much about you, Bobby, and you, Sam, and your car, Dean…"

"Hi!" Becky gushed, "I'm Becky, the bridesmaid! I'm Sam's date!" She grabbed Sam's arm; he gave the Jaegers a small, trapped smile.

"And this is Castiel," Ronnie beamed, "He's going to be my bridesman. He's with Dean," she added guilelessly. Dean shot her a look that also hinted at weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth at a later time.

"Hello," Castiel shook hands with the sort of serious intensity usually reserved for Catholics meeting the Pope. "I am looking forward to the celebrations. Including the Bachelorette's Night." He turned to Ronnie. "I am curious as to what parallels such an occasion might have with the ritual of the Buck's Night. For example, should I procure a supply of duct tape?"

"Why don't you just, uh, worry about the details later?" Bobby suggested tactfully, as Ronnie pulled an expression that could only be interpreted as a hands-free facepalm.

They left the parents of the groom chatting to Bobby, trusting him to keep Becky or Cas from saying anything too outrageous, and drifted over to the food. "How have you two pulled up today?" asked Ronnie.

"Sore," admitted Sam, "But we'll live." He looked around the room. "I don't see Ian."

"He had a long trip, then he was up half the night patching you two up," she shrugged, "He'll be around."

"Good," Dean grinned, "Because watching some guy order you around, that will never get old."

"He doesn't order me around!" she shot back. "Okay, well, maybe he does," she conceded. "A bit. But only when it's serious."

"Can he really kick your ass to the kerb?" Dean wanted to know.

Ronnie gave him a feral smile. "Pray you don't find out," she purred, "When we spar, there tends to be collateral damage."

Sam gawped at her. "Are you serious?"

"He's got age and treachery on his side," she said matter-of-factly. "He is, without doubt, the sneakiest, most devious, most cunning bastard I have ever met. I will never match him. I can only watch, and be amazed."

"You admire him," Sam realised, "You look up to him."

Her smile softened into one of genuine affection. "Yeah," she agreed, "He was – is – like a brother. The big brother I never had. The big brother I wish I'd had. After my Dad…" her voice trailed off. "I guess it's like Bobby says," she grinned, "Family don't end with blood."

"Was he really a doctor before he became a Hunter?" Sam pressed. "What happened?"

"Yes," answered Ronnie shortly, her face guarded. "Any further details are for him to tell you, if he decides to."

"Did he really crash a helicopter?" Dean asked, clearly intrigued. Ronnie examined the ceiling thoughtfully. "Yeah, yeah, okay," he humphed, "Well, we gotta try to find out what the hell has provoked a restless spirit. A Civil War soldier, don't know for sure which side, usin' real ammo. Something that's changed here recently."

"It's gotta be," Sam said grimly, "Because an old-fashioned grave salt-and-burn just won't be possible – there are war graves around here, some are mass burials, and there are probably soldiers from both sides who were never identified, or never ended up with a marked grave."

"Could that be important?" Ronnie wondered. "Could it be something about a soul never properly laid to rest, identified, in consecrated ground?"

"If that's what it is, we could be in trouble," sighed Sam. "There's no easy way to search for what happened to every combatant. Enlistments and commissions, casualties, interments, the records are not all intact."

"It might be a factor if it's somebody who was connected with Crossair House," mused Dean. "Have you found anything in Doc Malloy's journals, mentioning somebody who ended up unaccounted for?" He looked thoughtful. "What's the story with the crying servant? We know she's not a real ghost, but was she a real person? Did she really lose her boyfriend in the war?"

"Dunno," shrugged Sam, "But I can try to find out."

'Heeeeey!" Becky came bouncing over to them, "Castiel says he's going to do some research for your Bachelorette's Night, Ronnie!"

Dean grinned hugely as Ronnie groaned. "I told you, you strange and annoying person, I don't really want to do anything…"

"Oh, go on," urged Dean, "After all, we'll be taking Andrew out to celebrate his last night on Earth as a free man."

Ronnie scowled at him. "If you paint him green, shave his head, or put him on a plane to Ottowa, I will be very, very unhappy with you."

Dean gave her a hurt look. "Would I do something like that?" he said.

"Winchester," Ronnie snarled, "You'd wield the paint brush, strop the razor, or hand him the boarding pass."

"I'm wounded, Ronnie," he sighed, "Really, I'm wounded."

"Not yet," she smiled grimly, "But I could fix that…"

"Knock it off, you idjits," ordered Bobby, elbowing Dean out of the way to get to the food, "There will be no vandalising of the groom – the only thing that'll make him green will be if he drinks too much, and that would be his own damned fault. There's a bar and pool hall not far from here, that might be a suitable venue for some harmless batcheloring fun."

"Is there a strip club next door?" asked Dean eagerly, as Sam gave him a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "Or pole dancing? Do they have pole dancers?"

"If you don't wanna do the batchelor thing, you could come and do the batchelorette thing," Becky suggested to Sam, grabbing his arm, "We could do each other's hair!"

Ronnie gave Becky a hard stare. "You do know I'm a werewolf, don't you?" she asked.

"I got it! I got it!" chirped Dean, "Jelly wrestling! We gotta find somewhere that has jelly wrestling!"

"Get your mind above your belt, boy," Bobby frowned at Dean, "We gotta concentrate on figurin' out how to lay this angry spirit to rest."

"Dean was wondering whether the crying servant thing might be relevant," Sam told him.

"Could be," Bobby nodded, "Right now, we need to chase up any lead we can find…"

"Ronnie!" Mrs Jaeger called cheerfully to her daughter-in-law to be, "There you are! I know you want to keep it simple, but have you given any more thought to maybe doing something a little bit, well, special with your hair?"

"Uh," Ronnie wilted, "Not really, Mrs J, I was just going to tie it out of the way…"

"Oh, you gotta do something special!" insisted Becky. Mrs Jaeger beamed at having back-up. "It's your wedding!"

"You know what would suit your face?" suggested Dean brightly, "An updo, with curls first. A loose French roll, maybe, or a volumised bun, with some side wisps. Takes the emphasis off a square jaw."

"That's a wonderful idea, Dean!" enthused Mrs Jaeger, as Ronnie glared at Dean's happy smile.

"Why don't we do a trial run this afternoon?" suggested Becky.

"Uh, I'm not really sure…" stuttered Ronnie.

"Now, you pay attention to Dean," Mrs Jaeger chided gently, "I was a hairdresser for forty years, Ronnie, and it might be a stereotype, but you'd be amazed at just how often gay men have a really good eye for this sort of thing…"

Dean let out a little yip of outrage as Ronnie was towed away by Becky and Andrew's mother.

"Serves you right," chuckled Sam, "For throwing her to her mother-in-law-to-be."

"Come on, idjits," prompted Bobby, "We got research to do. Unless you'd like to go and wield the curling iron, Dean."

"What with your good eye for that sort of thing, and all," added Sam.

"I hate you, bitch."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Ronnie finally escaped from the clutches of Mrs Jaeger and her willing accomplice, she fled to her room, and inspected her hair despairingly. She'd have to wash it to get out all the spray. In her opinion, she looked as though she'd been dunked in starch, then thrown to a tornado. Behind her, Joni growled.

"Tell me about it," she sighed glumly to the dog, "It does look like I have something small and rodent-like perched on my head. I'll bloody kill that Winchester…"

"I'd be pleased to hold your coat while you do that," a voice behind her said pleasantly, "But for what it's worth, darling, I think you look realleeeeeEEEEEEEEEOWWWWW!"

She had the lid off the holy water before she finished turning around, and sent a generous slosh of it across the room to hit her uninvited visitor in the face.

"OWWWWW! Oh, that really stings! You have no ideaaaAAAAARGH!"

Ronnie was across the room in one bound, sinking her demon-blade project in up to the hilt.

"YEEEEEEEEEK! Oh, no, look at that! This tie is ruined! That was silk! Oh, that smarts!"

"Crowley," she growled, giving the knife a twist, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Ooooh! Aaaaaargh! Oooooh! Writhing in intense discomfort!" yelped the King of Hell, "Whilst eyeing your dog warily!" Joni's eyes were glowing ember-red, and her hell-teeth extruded as she growled.

"Don't play smart-arse with me, scumbag," Ronnie snapped, "Why are you here?"

"Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you," replied Crowley, smiling sheepishly, "But it's terribly difficult with this stuck in me." He gestured at the knife. "You've been working on that, haven't you?"

"Fine," snapped Ronnie, "So talk."

"Er," Crowley began, "Do you think you could, you know," he waved at the knife. "It really does sting quite badly."

With a snarl to rival her dog's, Ronnie withdrew the knife, and glared at him. "Be quick," she instructed, "Because if you bore me or piss me off, I'll set the dog on you." She paused. "Actually, I might just do that anyway."

"Well, you are a Hunter, so it's only to be expected," Crowley shrugged, regarding his tie mournfully. "I am here because I have some news that I think you should be appraised of."

"What?" Ronnie snorted in disbelief. "Bullshit. Demons don't just show up with intel."

"No! No!" Crowley insisted, "I assure you, in this case, I shit you no bulls! And I think you'll agree, you need to know this."

He told her.

She gawped at him, then snarled again. "Piss off," she snapped, "Demons lie."

"Yes, yes, they do," Crowley agreed, eyeing the knife as she hefted it again, "But in this case, I'm not."

"Why?" she demanded. "Why tell me this?"

The King of Hell drooped visibly. "Look, I'm not doing this for you, killer of ties," he snarked, "I'm doing this for Bobby."

She blinked at him. "Bobby?" she echoed.

"Yes, Bobby, all right?" Crowley waved his arms. "He deserves a break, a bit of a vacation. A little piece of normality. And what could be more happy and normal than a wedding? Even if the happy couple are a pair of particularly vexatious werewolves… look, I've been trying to demonstrate to Bobby that he could use me as a friend, it's no secret. By giving you a heads-up, I'm doing him a favour. And by coming straight to you, you can deal with this quietly."

Ronnie gave him a long, hard stare. So did Joni.

"Well, I've done what I came to do," Crowley sniffed, "It's up to you whether you believe me or not. I just hope you have the sense to use what I've given you."

"If you're here to help, what can you tell me about the Civil War spirit that's hanging around this place?" she demanded.

Crowley smiled regretfully at her. "Sorry, darling," he sighed, "Only one good deed per customer, per day, perhaps. But Rocky and Bullwinkle are on the case, and of course, with the Man of Knowledge on the job, they can't fail. Don't look at me like that, if it gets out that I'm even helping as much as I am, I'll be a laughing stock."

"As if you aren't already," she growled, "All right, you Pommy bastard, you've said your piece, now fuck off."

Crowley looked miffed. "Well, where you learned your manners, madam, I have no idea…"

"If you don't leave right now," Ronnie purred dangerously, "I will get my darling husband-to-be in here, and get him to practise his exorcism on you."

"Oh, now that's just ingratitude!" complained the King of Hell adamantly, "He speaks Latin about as well as the cast from _Jersey Shore_ speak English!"

"Or, I could have Joni tear your leg off," she shrugged, "Suit yourself."

"There are days," Crowley said sadly, "There are days when, if I didn't know better, I'd feel completely unappreciated…" there was a brief swirl of black smoke, and he disappeared.

* * *

Ermagerd! What the hell is Bruce the plot bunny up to? Feed him reviews to power him along so we can find out, because Reviews are the Days Off During Which You Can Get Stuff Done Whilst Not Going To Work At The Job Of Life! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!


	16. Chapter 15

Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse may recall that, in 'Wolf Whistle', Dean had cause to get in touch with his feminine side, and became something of a makeover enthusiast. If you ever go to visit the Jimiverse, look up his videos on YouTube, they'll still be there (along with the one of him dangling nekkid from a church roof, as described in 'Piening For The Ones We Can't Save').

And no, Ian is _not _a Dr Benton. He's a good guy, who is not in the least bit interested in killing anything except eebil fuglies. He doesn't even kill spiders. He really was a practising doctor before he became a Hunter. And he really did crash a helicopter, once.

**Ian:** I got shot down! It's completely different!

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Well, if there's a significant anniversary of some sort, I can't find it," humphed Sam, sitting back and rolling his shoulders. "Reading this guy's handwriting is giving me a headache. How did anybody have time to write in copperplate?"

"Well, the wood-burnin' rechargers for laptops back then were unreliable," deadpanned Bobby, "And printer cartridges were a luxury item that became scarce during the Civil War."

"Ha ha," grumbled Sam.

"I think I might have something on the servant, though," Bobby carefully turned a yellowing page, "There's mention of a girl here – Roisin – who is 'missing Ciaran most sorely'. Both Irish names. But I don't think they're family."

"So, who was Ciaran, and where did he go?" wondered Sam.

"No idea," replied Bobby, yawning and looking at his watch. "Do you think we could manage a spell to summon the coffee fairy?"

"I'm on it," Sam stood up and headed out in search of the drink that Hunters, like doctors and scientists, tended to regard not so much as a stimulant as an essential daily vitamin. "Maybe then we can give Dean a call, see if they've turned up anything at the old house site."

He was on his way back to the reading room when he nearly bumped into Ronnie. Or, more accurately, she nearly bumped into him. She let out a little cry of distress, and grabbed at his arm.

"Ronnie!" he yapped in alarm, "What's wrong?"

"Hide me," she beseeched, "In the name of volumising conditioner, Sam, hide me."

He looked behind her. "Oh, no," he groaned, "Don't tell me somebody saw you going, uh, plain clothes – you need to be careful if you're goin' out walkies!"

"It's worse!" she yelped. "It's Becky!"

"Ah," understanding dawned on his face.

"Well may you go 'Ah'," she moaned, "It's bad enough that she keeps wanting to read her writing to me – I'm going to have waking nightmares every time I see your brother and Castiel standing within arm's reach of each other – but now she's got Mrs J as back-up, she's decided that a make-up trial run is in order!"

"Oh, er," Sam looked non-plussed, "Well, it's probably a good idea to try out some things, you know, a test run before the big day..."

"Are you serious?" squawked Ronnie. "If she uses mascara like she uses English, I'll end up looking like Joan Rivers! Or Phyllis Diller! Or Divine! Or Marcel Marceau! I will look like the lost member of Insane Clown Posse!"

"Oh, yeah, I see what you mean," Sam nodded. "Look, uh, has it occurred to you that maybe, in this case, the path of least resistance might be the most workable solution? Just, you know, let her get it out of her system? You don't have to go with what she does, just let her have her fun, then do your own thing afterwards. Could be the quickest way to get her off your case."

Ronnie gave him a calculating look. "All right," she said calmly, "When she decides that since she's your date for my wedding, and she'd like to act as though it was a real date, to make sure you're totally convincing as a couple, my suggestion will be, hey, why don't you just let her get it out of her system, why don't you just let her tear your shirt off, you just lie there and think of England, try not to shriek when the cold champagne hits your skin, just hold still and let her lick it off, you don't have to go with what she does, just let her have her fun, just ignore the tongue in your ear and pay no attention to her when she shoves her hand down your..."

"Okay, okay," sighed Sam, "Why don't you come and help me and Bobby go through Dr Molloy's books?"

"Sitting hunched over dusty old paper reading spider scrawl writing that's barely decipherable?" interpreted Ronnie. "Sounds like fun! Let's go!"

"Ronnieeeeeee!" Becky's voice drifted up the stairs. "Ronnieeeeee, are you up there? Mrs Jaeger says we can use her make-up! I can tell you all about the plot for my new story while we do your trial! It's called 'A Hunter's Angel'!"

Joni let out a worried whine. So did Ronnie. So did Sam.

"This way," he whispered, heading quietly for the reading room.

"Does the door lock from the inside?" asked Ronnie, tiptoeing after him.

"No, but there's a very solid period chair we can jam under the handle."

"I love your plan. Are you sure you don't want me to maul her, just a little bit?"

"I'd be ever so grateful, but I don't think Bobby would be happy about having to explain a homicide. Plus, as Andrew pointed out, you'd lose your deposit; bloodstains on wool carpet, very difficult to get out."

"Hey, Sam, have you seen 'Walking Dead'?"

"What?"

"You know, that series, 'Walking Dead'? Zombie apocalypse? CDC blows up? Bloke cuts his own hand off? Irritating pregnant woman – I fucked the sheriff, and I also fucked the deputy? If Daryl dies, I will personally buttfuck the producer's soul."

"Oh, yeah. What about it?"

"Well, I was just thinking, if I can't kill Becky, what about I tear her arms off and keep her on a chain to chase other weirdos away?"

"Only if you tear off her bottom jaw and her tongue as well."

"It's a deal! So, if you could maybe distract her, pretend to..."

"Ronnie, I was kidding!"

"I wasn't."

"Oh, God, just... come on, let's go hide."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The site of the first Crossair House had sent ante-bellum archaeology enthusiasts into paroxysms of inarticulate delight, but to Dean it just looked like the sad, forgotten remains of something that had once been grand, but was now returning to the Earth.

"Mrs Rafferty was right," he observed, "It burned to the foundations." He peered into the crumbled remains of what had been a large fireplace. "Not even the chimneys survived."

"This place was huge," commented Andrew, looking at what was left of the stone structures being reclaimed by the encroaching vegetation, "Dr Malloy was doing all right if he could afford a place this big."

"It didn't take much to be 'rich' back then," Ian reminded them, crouching to examine a stone, "Especially if you migrated from a family of any means. And being a doctor was a very respectable profession. Only the well-off could afford to summon the doctor."

"Did you see the 'before' photo of it?" marvelled Andrew, "Why would anybody burn down a home like that?"

"Bad memories," mused Ian. "You heard what Sam said," he explained, "It was affecting his mind. The things he saw – a never-ending stream of wounded men, many of 'em dying lingering deaths even after he'd done his best to treat them – it'd affect anybody, I think."

"So, what are we lookin' for here?" asked Andrew.

"Anything, replied Dean, taking out his flashlight to peer further into the crumbling fireplace, "Anything that might suggest what's holding some poor bastard here."

"Surely the archaeologist types would've found anything by now?" reasoned Andrew.

"The ground shifts," Ian told him, "Right here, we're in the middle of the lowest, wettest part of Missouri. Bury somebody here, and a couple of seasons later, they can be grinning up at you one morning. Especially if your buddies only had time to dig a shallow grave to start with." He looked to the lush greenery. "It's probably not such a bad thing if that reclaims the site."

Jimi was sniffing back and forth across the expanse, tail wagging as he found interesting scents and small creatures to bark at.

"Well, somebody's having a good time," remarked Andrew, "I think next time, I'll just come back as a dog. A spoiled Poodle, perhaps, being carried around in some bimbo's handbag, and fed organic chicken, and crapping on the carpet..."

Jimi suddenly veered across the clearing, nose on a mission, following a scent into the thick undergrowth.

"Hey, what's there, J-Man?" Dean encouraged him, pulling at a thick branch as Jimi scratched at it. "Gimme a hand here, guys."

They cleared the growth as Jimi sniffed away from the remains of the house, through the greenery, and across an adjoining field, where a couple of drowsy horses watched them placidly. He led them to a sprawling copse where the ground was damp, then nosed at the end of a moss-covered branch.

"What's that, Jimi?" asked Dean, "What's under that branch, huh? What's there?"

"That's not a branch," Ian corrected, "That's a femur." He played his flashlight over the scene. "A femur that was broken off by artillery, I'd say."

Dean stood watch with salt rounds at the ready as Ian and Andrew cleared leaf litter and debris away from the slight remains that were settling into the ground.

"Jesus, he was just a kid," mused Dean.

"A lot of them were," Ian replied sadly, examining the skeleton. "Grapeshot, from the look of it," he opined, "The rest of his leg is missing, and he's got several shattered ribs, cracked sternum, cracked vertebrae." He poked around in the ground underneath, and managed to extract a deformed lead ball. "We can only hope that he died as quickly as possible."

"Look at that," Andrew's flashlight picked out dull metal beneath a bony hand, and Ian smiled.

"Crucifix," he said, "And there's his rosary. A good Irish Catholic boy."

"He's facing east," Dean noted, still alert for any unnatural activity.

"He must've been brought to Crossair," Andrew shrugged.

"It's unlikely he could've dragged himself this far with those injuries," Ian decided, "Or laid himself out. Looks like a couple of his buddies got him here, and did the best they could for him." He looked around. "It's a peaceful place. They chose well."

"So why the hell is he wandering around shooting at people now?" asked Andrew.

"Maybe because his remains have been exposed?" shrugged Dean, still looking around. "Hey I wonder if he's the only one here?"

"Most likely not," answered Ian. "He's just the one who's come to light."

Andrew groaned. "So, what, do we have to dig up the whole area?"

"Possibly not," mused Ian, "Although we'd best salt and burn this guy a.s.a.p."

It was a straightforward, somewhat sad salt and burn; if his spirit was still tied to his mortal remains, the soldier did not make an appearance to try to interfere.

"So, do we get Jimi to see if he can locate any more?" asked Andrew.

"I say we try consecration," suggested Ian, "Dean, you got holy water?"

"Always," Dean handed over his flask, "Don't you need a bishop for a consecration?"

"Technically, yes," Ian replied, taking the flask, "But in times of war or disaster, lesser clergy can bless ground to be used for burial."

"So, you got a vicar under your skirts?" asked Andrew, amused.

"That's what he said," grinned Dean.

"Not exactly," Ian frowned at the pair of them, "But I was ordained a lay reader a long time ago – that sort of thing doesn't expire." His gesture took in the shady copse. "This was a time when people took their religion very seriously. It might just be enough to keep any more restless spirits from troubling the living."

"It's gotta be worth a try," agreed Andrew, "It can't do any harm."

"Well, bless away," Dean waved a hand.

Even Dean had to admit that the rite, although short, was a moving one, eloquent but to the point, commending the unknown soldiers unto God, and asking His blessing and mercy upon the souls that had suffered in silence and obscurity. When it was done, there was nothing but the sound of insects, and a lone owl hooting into the encroaching evening.

"Well, hopefully that's done it," declared Dean, picking up the lighter fluid can, "Johnny or Billy can R.I.P., so we can P.O.Q. before dinner is D.O.A."

Andrew took out his phone, and brought up the GPS. "Should we tell the staff about what we found?" he asked. "The history nerds might want to have a look over there."

"No," Ian replied, looking back as they headed for the car, "Leave him be. Leave them be. They deserve to be left in peace. Whoever they were, they earned that much."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When they returned to the standing Crossair House, Dean found Bobby downstairs in conversation with Great Aunts Sadie and Dotsie once more.

"So, how was your explorin'?" Bobby asked, with a meaningful raise of the eyebrows.

"Really worthwhile," Dean replied, audibly as well as with eyebrow semaphore. "We had a good look around _waggle waggle_ and found some really interesting _waggle_ things. I'll tell you all about it later." He looked around. "Where's Sam?"

"Last I saw, he was really interested _up-down-up_ in something he found in one of the good doctor's journals _waggle waggle_," Bobby said, "So he's probably still up to his eyeballs in copperplate."

"I'll go find him," decided Dean, gesturing to Jimi, "Come on, J-Man, let's go find the Shaggy-Headed Nerdasaurus."

"Andreas!" Great Aunt Dotsie waved her coffee mug; Andrew sighed, and picked up the pot. "Catch you later," he muttered.

Dean headed upstairs, but Sam wasn't in the reading room. The door was open, a chair was shoved back against the wall at an unlikely angle, and there was a book sprawled on the floor.

He was instantly on the alert: Sam would never, never leave any book on the floor, let alone an old and possibly valuable one.

Something was wrong...

He bolted for the room the Winchesters were sharing; it was locked.

"Sam?" he called anxiously, fishing for his own key, "Sam, you in there?"

The door opened a sliver, and a worried hazel eye peered out at him.

"Is she gone?" Sam asked in a small voice.

"What?" Dean looked around, confused, "Is who gone? Let me in, bro!"

"Becky!" yelped Sam, checking the hallway as he pulled Dean into the room, "We were in the reading room, going through Doc Molloy's journals, and Becky and Mrs Jaeger found us!"

"Us?" Dean echoed.

"Me and Ronnie!" Sam told him, "We had a chair under the door, but they got it open, and they wanted to do a make-up trial, and Mrs Jaeger offered to do something with my hair, and," he swallowed, "Becky tried to tell me about her story..."

"Hey, it's okay, Sam," Dean reassured him, "They're gone."

"You don't understand!" Sam practically wailed, "They've got Ronnie!"

"Yeah, well, she's a big girl," Dean shrugged, "She can look after herself."

At that moment, Sam's phone chirped with a message. It was from Ronnie.

_**HALP HALP HALP**_

Sam turned a resolute face to Dean. "We gotta go," he said firmly.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, she's an adult, hard as that might be to believe sometimes, and she is perfectly capable of..."

There was an audible crash from the other end of the hallway.

"Come on," said Sam grimly, "We gotta stop this."

"Sam," Dean said as his brother pushed past him, "I think you're over-reacting. I mean, really, they're not armed with anything except make-up – how much harm can they do?"

Sam gave his brother an incredulous look. "Do you really think we have to worry about _them _harming _her_?"

"Ah, crap," muttered Dean, "Go get Andrew – he's on coffee detail. And just a warning, if I get hit with a facefull of foundation, I will totally hand you your ass on a plate."

* * *

Oh, the Denizens have been so naise with the reviewing! You are fuelling the plot bunny! Keep up the good work, because Reviews are the... Leahelisabeth! Come back here with that champagne! Don't you... oh, well, never mind, I suppose he can have a shower afterwards. Try not to make him squeal, there's a good girl.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Dean paused as he was about to knock. "Uh, should we be loaded with silver for this?" he asked. Sam just rolled his eyes, so he knocked. "Uh, is everything okay, ladies?" he asked as pleasantly as he could, "We heard a crash."

"Everything's fine, guys," Becky's voice chirped, as cheerful as ever, "It was just a chair. We're just having a bit of discussion about colours..."

The Winchesters exchanged a glance, then Dean pushed the door open.

Part of the period décor of the room included a beautiful parasol, with an intricately carved handle and embroidered fabric. It may once have been used to fend off the harsh rays of the sun, by a lady who wished to save her skin from pigmentation.

It was currently being used to fend off Becky, by a werewolf who wished to save her skin from decoration.

Becky's approach to the use of cosmetics was apparently just as subtle as her writing. Ronnie looked like a raccoon caught in headlights; not just because she look startled, but because the dark smudges around her eyes gave her an aspect that was positively procyonid.

Mrs Jaeger was speaking to her in the calm voice of a woman who had wrangled three sons and a husband, and as such knew how to be unflappable in the face of an argument that was blowing at Force Seven, gusting to Force Eight, with chance of localised fisticuffs.

"I think perhaps you might be over-reacting, Ronnie," she said patiently.

"Over-reacting?" Ronnie echoed incredulously. "Over-reacting? She's made me look like Marilyn Manson!"

"I was thinking more Alice Cooper," Dean said brightly.

Sam elbowed him viciously. "Not _helping_, Dean," he hissed.

Mrs Jaeger was not to be deflected by a male attempting to put out a fire with gasoline. "We can take it as established that that _particular_ foundation is not quite the right shade for you," she said, "And that much eyeshadow is probably too much, even for going out late at night..."

"It's too much for a brothel!" Ronnie snapped.

"Exactly how much do you know about how much make-up a hooker should wear?" asked Dean solicitously. Sam winced.

"Ronnie? Mom?" Andrew arrived, sounding concerned, "Did I hear something go crash?"

"Nothing important," Dean grinned, "Your wife to be is just practisin' to be a hooker, looks like your wedding night is goin' to be reeeeal interesting..."

"Dean!" snapped Sam, with a sharp Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!). "It's okay, they're just having a bit of a, uh, discussion about make-up."

"Ronnie doesn't really do make-up," Andrew noted, "I didn't think you were going to bothe- HOLY SHIT!"

"Andrew," his mother frowned at him, "Language!"

Ronnie glared at Becky, baring her teeth. "You see? You see? My pair-bo... uh, my almost-husband thinks I look like a hooker!"

"Hey, how do you know what a hooker looks like?" Dean asked Andrew cheerfully.

"What?" yelped Andrew. "I don't! I never mentioned hookers!" He winced as his mother frowned at him. "Mooooom!"

"It's okay, dude," Dean told him breezily, "You were a single guy for a long time, it's nothing to be ashamed of..."

"DEAN!" snapped Sam, "Shut! Up! About! Hookers!"

"Well, we haven't finished yet," smiled Becky, sublimely oblivious, as she flourished a lipstick, "This will balance it out perfectly!" She peered at the bottom of the tube. "It's called Scarlet Strumpet'."

"With 'strumpet', of course, bein' another word for hooker," observed Dean earnestly.

Ronnie began to growl.

"Dean!" Sam snarled _sotto voce_, "We're supposed to be making sure that this whole shindig goes according to plan, not provoking a murder!"

"You gotta admit, though," Dean grinned shamelessly, "It's fun..." Sam pulled a full strength Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted), and he sighed. "Yeah, yeah, all right, maybe you got a point. Ronnie, put down the parasol, and wipe off your face. Becky, put down the lipstick, I repeat, put down the lipstick, then back up with your hands in the air..."

"But we haven't finished," Becky complained in a disappointed tone.

"You have," Dean told her firmly. "Trust me, I'm doin' this for your own good." With a disappointed sigh, Becky did as she was told. Ronnie lowered the parasol, and reached for a packet of wipes to start ridding herself of the raccoon mask. "All right," he nodded, "So, we're not actually Klingons or Dothraki here, so, why don't we try to avoid any actual bodily harm or breakin' of furniture?"

"Just a little bit of colour, Ronnie," wheedled Mrs Jaeger, as Ronnie pulled the sort of pout usually seen on a six-year-old denied a second helping of chocolate ice-cream, "For your wedding day. I'm sure it would mean so much to Andrew..."

"Hey! Leave me outta this!" yelped the groom to be.

"Mrs Jaeger, let's just go with 'avoiding bloodshed'," suggested Dean with unusual tact.

"Spoilsport," muttered Ronnie, wiping vigorously at her face.

"All right," Dean assessed the de-escalation, "Now, why don't we all just..." he stared at the table. "Oh, crap..."

"What?" asked Sam, worried, "Dean, what is it?"

"This! What the hell? His expression became incredulous as he held up a bottle of foundation to inspect it. "Becky, is this yours? What the hell is this?"

"Dean, what's wrong?" pressed Sam.

"Everything!" declared Dean. "Look at it! It's totally wrong! It's even too pale for you, Becky!"

Sam and Andrew blinked. "Too pale?" they chorused.

"Well, unless you're one of those Twihard morons who wants to look like a fish that's been dead for three days," Dean scoffed, poking disdainfully at an eyeshadow. "Jesus, Becky, either take up seventies roller disco, or throw this out. Shut up, it's for your own good. Oh, God, look at this pencil, when was the last time you sharpened this thing? It's worse than a first grader's crayon! And... what in the name of all that is holy is _this_?" He lifted something gingerly. "What _is_ this? What is this supposed to be? This is not a brush, Becky, this is a small dead rodent with a popsicle stick up its ass! Shut up, Becky. Throw it out. Now! You'll thank me later. No, don't say anything, just sharpen this pencil. Now. Sit! Stay! Sharpen! Good girl."

Becky, a bemused look on her face, shut her mouth with an audible click, dropped into a chair, and began to rat through her bag for the sharpener.

Sam smiled, and shook his head. "My hero," he murmured.

"All he needs is the cape, and his shorts over his pants," grinned Andrew.

Mrs Jaeger beamed hugely, inspiration in her eyes. "Pay attention, Becky," she instructed, "We'll get Dean to do Ronnie's make-up..."

"What?" yelped Ronnie and Dean.

"Gotta go!" chirped Andrew, "Bad luck for the groom to see any of the preparations!"

"You girls have fun!" smiled Sam. Dean glared at their retreating backs.

"So, sit down, Ronnie," directed Mrs Jaeger, "And you'll learn a lot, because as I said before, you'll often find that gay men have a very good eye for this sort of thing..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"All quiet on the western front?" Bobby asked when they headed back downstairs.

"Yeah," Sam told him, grinning, "Dean's just giving a make-up tutorial."

"I think he's just temporarily been made an honorary woman," added Andrew.

"Good," gruffed Bobby, "So all we gotta do is worry about organisin' your buck's turn."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Bobby, I thought that you of all people would be on my side with this..."

"Hell, son, you gotta do somethin' to mark the passin' of your freedom!" Bobby grinned. "I'll never forget mine. Well, that's not true – there are bits of it I don't remember to start with – but as long as you show up on the big day, not lookin' too green, with both eyebrows intact, and avoid pukin' on anybody's shoes, that's all that matters."

"Dean says we should go out and eat man food – pizza and hamburgers – drink, and play pool," Sam mentioned.

"Dean also says we should have strippers, pole dancers and jelly wrestlers," Andrew pointed out. "He had to go and mention pole dancers to Mark and Seth. Now they're campaigning for pole dancers. And Matt is right on board with jelly wrestling."

"I think that at such short notice, not even Dean could arrange jelly wrestling," Sam reassured him.

Andrew gazed at him levelly. "We are talking about the guy who can shut Becky up," he said, "Do you really think a mere jelly wrestling match is beyond him?"

"Well, if worst comes to worst, you can just delegate, and push him in," Bobby patted Andrew on the shoulder. "And now, children, if anybody wants me, I'll be in the upstairs readin' room..."

"Haven't we laid the spirit to rest?" asked Andrew. "You think maybe Ian's try at consecration won't work?"

"Hopefully, it did," Bobby commented, "But the good doctor acquired some very interestin' reading, in his quest to educate himself about the occult, and I'd like to scan through as many as I can."

"It's a real pity nobody's ever transcribed his journal," Sam commented, "He was clearly an articulate man, struggling to make sense of the carnage he sees around him. Ian seems to think that it'd get to anybody."

"Where is our own good doctor, anyway?" Bobby asked. "I didn't see him at dinner."

"Probably already got his nose stuck in a book," Andrew replied. "Ronnie says he'd rather read than eat. Then she usually adds some unkind description, including words like 'weirdo', 'freak' and 'alien'."

"Yeah?" Bobby chuckled. "And what does he say?"

"He calls her an idiot child, and asks if she's eaten any good books recently," Andrew shrugged. "I tell ya, he's got her number."

"A remarkable man," mused Bobby. "So, don't stay up too late tonight – we could have a late one tomorrow, heh heh..."

"I'd better go put a password on both the laptops," mused Sam, "Just in case Dean decides we can't have a buck's night without porn."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Subtle," Dean instructed, wielding a pale lipstick carefully, "You don't want to come out lookin' like Pennywise, or Kim Kardashian, less is more." He considered his work, then sat back. "There," he announced, satisifed, "That's all you need."

"Wow," breathed Becky.

"Ronnie, you look lovely," declared Mrs Jaeger, as her almost-daughter-in-law looked in the mirror, and smiled uncertainly.

"You think so?" she quavered in a small voice.

"Totally!" enthused Becky, "Do me next! Do me next!"

"Huh?" gawped Dean.

"Oh, yes," grinned Ronnie, giving up her seat, "If Becky is gunna be my bridesmaid, you'll have to do hers too!" She fluttered her mascara-ed lashes at him, as he fumed silently at her, "After all, we want the whole wedding party looking their be-"

She drew in a sharp breath, and grabbed the back of the chair.

"Ronnie?" Dean was on his feet, "You okay?"

"Uh... yeah," she gave him a wobbly smile, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a shudder."

"Oh, like, when somebody walks over your grave?" asked Becky, taking the seat.

"Yeah, just like that," Ronnie's voice sounded more certain. "When I was a kid, my sisters and I used to say 'There's a disturbance in the Force'." She looked out the window. "It's a nice night out," she said, still smiling, "I might go out for a walk later."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was the middle of the night when something roused Bobby from sleep – like any Hunter, he could go from Sound Asleep to Ready To Plug You Full Of Lead in 0.4 seconds, given the smallest disturbance.

He let his ears adjust, then put down his gun. Crazy old coot, he groused at himself, jumpin' at shadows. With the woodlands surrounding the place, the area would be teeming with wildlife. Still...

He hauled himself out of bed, and carefully put his head out into the dim hallway. There was nothing, not a peep, just an empty hall – nothing to set his Hunter's invisible whiskers twitching. Shaking his head, he went to shut the door.

Then noticed the dim glow from under the door of the reading room.

He frowned to himself; he was sure he'd turned out the lights when he'd left. Unless he'd had what Dean grinningly referred to as 'a senior moment'." With a sigh, he pulled on his gown, and padded along the hall.

He went in and reached for the switch. He almost didn't notice that the room was occupied; Ian was sitting almost perfectly still in a corner chair, a large book open before him, a bottle and glass beside him.

"Oh, sorry," Bobby said, "Almost didn't see you there."

"I have what Ronnie calls 'mad ninja skills," Ian shook his head in amusement. "Can't sleep?"

"Thought I heard something," Bobby told him, "Musta just been some critter outside."

"Fancy a dram?" Ian indicated the bottle.

"Do Catholic bears shit on popes in the woods?" Bobby grinned, picking up another glass and checking out the bottle, "Nice. You know, dilutin' that stuff with ice should probably constitute a capital crime in some places."

"I'd vote for that," agreed Ian equably, pouring a generous measure.

Bobby peered at the book in the other man's lap. "Greek?" he queried.

"Plato," Ian told him.

"Is that what you prescribe yourself for insomnia?" asked Bobby.

Ian shrugged. "I like to read about Socrates, so I can take a happy satisfaction in the knowledge that somebody got around to poisoning him. Ficino's Latin translation is good, but I find that the original gives me the most enjoyable frisson of shadenfreude."

Bobby chortled at that. "Doctor Malloy's tastes were eclectic, to say the least," he remarked.

"Well, he was an educated man," Ian noted, "He would've been expected to be fluent in Latin, and at least read classical Greek."

"Gregson doesn't sound like a particularly Hellenic name," Bobby commented. Ian spat a mouthful of choppy syllables at him, then smiled at his bemused expression. "Which means, 'I had it beaten into me as a boy'," he translated. "My grandfather had some very old-fashioned ideas about useful education."

"Well, Latin is pretty damned valuable for a Hunter," Bobby dropped into a chair and sniffed the single malt appreciatively, "And fluency with Greek would help – I can read it a bit, but don't really speak it. So," he went on casually, "Your Grandpa trained you up for the Hunt?"

"Not really," Ian replied pleasantly enough, with a smile that was friendly but decidedly guarded, "Just languages. He trained my brothers – didn't think I had the _virtus_ for it. And he was right." For a moment, he looked sad. "And now, here I am. The one who was never supposed to be a Hunter."

"None of us were," Bobby commiserated quietly, taking in the wedding band on Ian's left hand. "But it seems that the Fates, Karma, Destiny, those disembodied sumbitches had other ideas."

"Sunt superis sua iura," intoned Ian, looking into his glass.

"Heh heh, 'The gods have their own rules'," chuckled Bobby. "Translated from Plato?"

"Ovid," Ian said. "I hate him too. Although_ Ibis_ is a good fun read – he sure knew how to lay a curse."

Bobby let out a bark of laughter, and sipped his drink. "Oh, this is really good," he grinned appreciatively, "You are a man of fine taste in booze."

"I've always thought that if I have to go around cleaning up after 'em, those disembodied sumbitches owe me this at least," Ian declared.

"Amen to that," agreed Bobby, drinking again. "I'm kinda lookin' forward to this wedding," he confided. "We don't get many happy endings in this business – this is about as close as we get, and I intend to enjoy this one."

"Amen to that," smiled Ian. "After what she's been through…" he shook his head. "It's like she's getting another family, one that really cares about her. If anybody deserves it, it's Ronnie. So does Andrew – he's a really nice guy."

"Did you know there was Cupid involvement?" Bobby cocked an eyebrow.

Ian shot him a look. "You are shitting me," he said.

"I shit you not," Bobby said archly. "I have it from an impeccable source."

Ian smiled, refilled his glass, and topped up Bobby's. "Do tell," he pressed solicitously.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was late. She looked up at the moon; not quite full, but almost, close enough for the knot of anxiety in the pit of her stomach to clench again.

_There has to be a way. There is a way._

There was a light breeze, barely stirring the leaves of the trees around the small clearing. A quiet night, a peaceful night. A lovely night for a quiet walk.

Stars winked down at her from overhead, unfamiliar constellations, reinforcing the sense of displacement, the sense of not-home, of being off her own turf. It made her uneasy. More uneasy.

_There has to be a way. There is a way._

For what seemed like the hundredth time, she looked at her watch.

The snap of a twig to her left made her look up sharply; it was close. Closer than anything could have come without making noise earlier. Unless it was deliberate.

_There is a way._

A low, rumbling growl sounded from the darkness. She took a deep breath, and lifted her head, turning to look directly at where the growl had come from. She'd started this, and she'd see it through, whatever the outcome. What was there to lose? What choice did she have?

_There is a way._

"I'm here," she called clearly. "But you know that already, don't you?"

Another growl sounded behind her, deeper, and she whipped around.

Although she was anticipating it, she still started in surprise.

The woman walked towards her silently, grimly, the scarring on her face faded but still startlingly evident. She was older, past forty now, and she walked with the deliberate, confident tread of a Hunter.

She felt her eyes fill with tears.

The woman walked straight up to her, and smiled. As she did so, long, yellowed canine fangs extruded, giving her face a frightening, predatory expression.

Claire stared, but held her ground. "Ronnie," she whispered.

Ronnie leaned in until the fangs were just inches from her mother's face. "Hello, Mum."

* * *

If you've never read _Ibis_ by Ovid, go and find it online (in translation) - it's the most histrionic and creative cursing of somebody you've ever read...

Meanwhile, what is Bruce the plot bunny up to? Feed him reviews, because Reviews are the Parasols Protecting You From The Ghastly Weirdos You Encounter As You Move Through The Guest House Of Life! (Can't promise that the parasol is any good against The Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality; you'll need a bigger boat for that.)


	18. Chapter 17

Okay, Bruce has been a loquacious leoporid, and dictated another chapter. Here's the deal: I'll post it straight away, and you review the previous chapter as well. Do we have an agreement? Good.

I suppose that all our Merkin and Canadian Denizens are still going squee over S9 starting up again. I had a peek over at Superwiki - did Sam end up tied to a chair _again_? Seriously, is Leahelisabeth on the writing team?

**JIMIVERSE FUN FACT:** Ronnie was turning eighteen in in January or February 1992, which makes her five years older than Dean. However, the way that they snipe at each other sometimes makes it seem that both of them got stuck somewhere around seven years old…

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Claire Shepherd was no coward; during her practise of The Craft, she had encountered, opposed and faced down her fair share of occult fuglies seeking to do her or other people harm, from other witches to lower level demons. But she was no fool, either, and she recognised that she was taking a gamble.

"Ronnie," she said again, taking in the sight of her daughter, and doing her best to ignore the fangs. "It's true – you can control it…"

Ronnie smiled unpleasantly. "You have no idea. How did you find me?" she demanded.

Claire smiled. "Hunters talk, love," she answered, "You know what they're like, they talk, they gossip worse than hairdressers. And they know how to use the internet. The world is a smaller place. We got some intel, made some enquiries; we knew it could only be you. I almost didn't believe it, but we wanted to, so much..." She gave her daughter a searching look. "Have you... have you been Hunting on your own all this time?"

"Not on my own," Ronnie grinned mirthlessly, then gruffed into the darkness. Joni came stalking out of the trees, watching Claire curiously. "Not for a long time, now."

Claire smiled as Joni eyed her uncertainly. "What a beautiful girl she is."

"Ha! You should've seen the first one," Ronnie grunted, nostrils flaring. "Where is he? He's not here." She took in a long breath. "He's not within cooee."

Claire knew she was speaking about her father. "We thought it best if he didn't come with me," she replied.

Ronnie let out a bark of laughter at that. "He never was an idiot," she acknowledged. "Still on the job?"

"Yes," Claire told her.

Ronnie nodded thoughtfully, doing a quick mental calculation. "Impressive," she conceded, "Still alive at his age. But he was always good, wasn't he? Real good."

Claire didn't say anything. Ronnie watched her mother's face, and her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"He wants to see you," Claire said.

Ronnie let out a genuine chuckle. "I'll bet he does," she chortled, "He never did like to leave a job unfinished. A touch of the OCDs, there, I reckon." She grinned unpleasantly. "Take him home, Mum. He's good, but I'm better. I'm all growed up, and you have no idea just how good I am. He won't stand a chance. He even tries, he'll go home in a box. I promise you that..."

"No!" Claire interrupted, "No, Ronnie! He doesn't want that!"

"What am I supposed to think, Mum?" Ronnie snarled. "What am I supposed to do? You'd have seen me dead. He wanted me dead. I didn't get my fairytale happy ending. Why should you? What makes you think I want to see either of you?"

"We're sorry, Ronnie," Claire almost whispered, "We are so sorry. You are our daughter..."

"Why the hell are you here?" Ronnie shot back.

Claire gazed at her daughter levelly. "Your father has never forgiven himself," she said steadily. "As I have never forgiven myself for helping him. He has never forgiven himself for not being there to protect you. He has never forgiven himself for Anya. And he has never forgiven himself for you. Please, Ronnie, I am so sorry, we are so sorry, he so desperately wants to see you..."

Her eye fell on the simple white gold band set with pale stones on the ring finger of her daughter's left hand. She looked up, stunned, and Ronnie laughed at her expression.

"Unbelievable, isn't it?" she said, genuinely amused, "It's just unbe-frigging-lievable! After everything, after _everything_, I'm getting married, and some twenty years later, my parents turn up, just in time for the ceremony!" She threw back her head and laughed, howling with hilarity. "You couldn't write this! Nobody could write this! The most demented soap script writer couldn't come up with this shit!"

"Show me!" Claire was overcome by the revelation, and took hold of Ronnie's hand, examining the ring. "It's beautiful," she pronounced, "And practical." She looked up. "He is a clever boy. A Hunter?"

"A mechanic," Ronnie smiled. "And his Latin is almost worse than Sean's."

Claire winced. "That bad?" she asked.

Ronnie gave her mother a defeated look. "He… tries very hard," she said eventually, clearly struggling to say something nice about her fiancé.

"Does he... does he make you happy?" Claire pressed.

Ronnie's face softened. "He... somehow, he just never saw the scars," she told her mother, "He is... he's... he's just the one," she finished.

"And does he know about...?" Claire left the question hanging.

Ronnie laughed again. "Oh, yeah," she waved a hand dismissively. "A bit hard to hide. Fortunately, he's a big meat-eater, too. The fridge always looks like a butcher's shop store room."

"Oh, love," Claire's eyes filled with tears, "I'm so glad, I'm so happy... please, will you meet your father? Tell him? He'll be just stoked."

Ronnie gave her mother a long, calculation look. "All right," she agreed, "Tomorrow night." She saw her mother's glance dart up to the moon. "It's not full yet," she grinned, "And I have control of the shapeshift anyway. Any time, any place. He told you that, didn't he?"

"He did," Claire nodded. "Thank you, Ronnie."

"Don't thank me yet," Ronnie snapped, turning to leave, "Whatever he's looking for from me, he may not get it. Unless it's a quick, bloody end. That, I could do."

"Ronnie, please..." Claire begged. "And you're getting married, your family should be there..."

Ronnie smiled the smile that Len had always suspected would steal somebody's heart one day. "Don't worry about that. I've got a big brother, and a bloke who'd have made a better father that you could ever understand to walk me down the aisle. He says that family doesn't end with blood, and he's damned well right." She chuckled to herself. "I've even got a couple of annoying cousin types, although the Sean substitute speaks Latin well, is quite possibly the best Hunter I've ever met, and I don't actually want to kill him, maybe just strangle him occasionally. And, he drives_ the _coolest car in the universe."

Claire looked unhappy, but kept her peace. "But you will meet him? Tomorrow?"

"Yeah." She looked momentarily concerned. "Is he really still Hunting? At his age?"

Claire's face expressed her unhappiness with that eloquently. "Yes," she sighed heavily.

"It's a man thing, isn't it?" Ronnie muttered almost to herself. "Won't realise that he should get out of the game while he's still alive. God, why do they do shit like that? Are they born dumb, or is it just cumulative testosterone poisoning?"

Claire laughed. "Ronnie, you're getting married," she stated, "You'd better get used to it. You've got the rest of your life to be aggravated by man things."

"Thanks for the pep talk, coach." Ronnie turned to leave, but turned back, her face wistful. "Mum, what... what happened to Diesel?"

Claire smiled gently in recollection. "He was old when you left," she said, "His heart gave out shortly afterwards. He missed you, I think. We buried him under the mango tree, at the bottom of the yard. Your father put his Utility Dog medal around his neck."

"That's..." Ronnie swallowed. "That's good. He would've liked that. It was his favourite spot."

She left as soundlessly as she'd arrived, fading into the shadows between the trees.

Claire let out a breath that she didn't realise she'd been holding, and a small glimmer of hope sparked inside her.

_There is a way._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dogs, like wolves, are social animals. Their group, their family, their Pack, is the foundation, the anchor, the weft of their lives. They are most content and happy when the Pack is stable, the power structure is clear and unambiguous. That's why disputes about pack order are settled quickly, by threat display and maybe a short fight to establish dominance; challenges represent instability, and threaten the wellbeing of all.

Uncertainty gnawed at Joni as she followed her Alpha back to the guest house.

_She is your Pack. _The whuff to her Alpha was a statement, not a question. Her nose told her instantly that the strange woman was related to her Alpha, and that raised ambiguity, which made the dog uneasy.

_She is my Dam,_ Ronnie agreed, _But I left my Sire's Den when I was just a Young. Well before I was Elder._

_You are angry,_ Joni went on.

_My Sire comes to my territory,_ Ronnie told her. _Tomorrow._

_He comes to our Pack?_ asked Joni.

_He comes to our Pack,_ Ronnie rumbled, smiling to herself. _ I am Elder now. I am Alpha._

_You are Alpha,_ echoed Joni, dropping her head in proper deference to the assertion, the canine equivalent of relief in her vocalisation and her posture. The brief exchange told her everything she needed to know, and dispelled all doubt and uncertainty.

An Elder, past his prime, sought the inclusion and protection of their pack; a wise choice, for an ageing individual. Humans and their Pack structures were complicated, compared to canines, but Joni's Alpha was no ordinary human, and it was reassuringly clear what would happen. The aged Elder would have to submit to her dominance, as was the way of things.

Her Alpha's tone and choice of expression made it clear that she had already made her decision: she would drive her Sire from her territory, or she would kill him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby dragged himself downstairs to a late breakfast, grumbling about the noise coming from a couple of workmen who were setting up new display cabinets.

"Do they have to do that so loudly?" he complained, wincing, as he helped himself to a large coffee.

"Are you okay Bobby?" asked Sam.

"He's just peachy," grinned Dean, "Needs to learn his limit, perhaps, but otherwise, he's just peachy."

"Shaddap," growled Bobby.

"Bobby," Sam went on hesitantly, "Are you... are you hung-over?"

"No, I'm just bein' my usual cheerful, Pollyanna self, tralala," Bobby griped, reaching for the sugar, "So don't make me cranky."

"Since when do you get hung-over?" demanded Sam. "Your liver would process a drum of nerve gas without blinking, let alone booze!"

"Got talkin' to Ian last night, after somethin' woke me up," Bobby admitted. "He shared his scotch. Very good stuff. Damn, I thought the really good stuff aint supposed to do this." He looked around. "Has he been around? He musta drunk twice as much as me. The man's a damned fish."

"He must be feelin' it worse than you," Sam chuckled, "Because he hasn't even surfaced this morning."

"Good," Bobby grunted in satisfaction, "I hope his head explodes."

"What were you talkin' about?" Sam wanted to know.

"Mostly about how good his taste in drink is," Bobby managed a cackle, "But just shootin' the shit. He knows his stuff – surprised I've never met him before. He was still reading Greek when I staggered back to bed."

"He's a bit of a Civil War buff, isn't he?" Sam noted, "He knows his history."

"Maybe he's one of these weirdos who dresses up and does re-enactments, in which case, I'd keep quiet, too," Dean stated.

"An interest in history doesn't make you a weirdo," Sam stated.

"He sits up all night reading Greek? That right there is weirdo material," Dean asserted, "The only thing weirder than that would be sitting up all night drinking with a weirdo who's sitting up all night reading Greek…"

"Idjit," Bobby muttered, nodding towards the door. "Sam you're on point."

"What am I watching for?" asked Sam, moving his chair so he could see into the hallway.

"I need you to warn me if the Great Aunts are approachin' my grid square,": Bobby replied, "I aint ready to make polite conversation with elderly spinsters." There was a bang from the hallway. "Do they have to do that so loudly?" he complained.

"Some more of the artefacts are goin' on display, Mrs Rafferty said," Sam relayed, "Including some of Doctor Molloy's personal effects, and his medical instruments. Ian will want to see those. Seems to be another interest of his."

"No, seriously, does anybody else think this Ian guy is weird?" Dean persisted. "Does anybody else think it's strange that he recognised an artillery shot wound?" he recalled, "On that soldier we salted and burned? That's a hell of an interest to take. Where do you see artillery wounds, these days?"

"He coulda been military," Sam suggested, "Ronnie says he crashed a helicopter."

"And he says he got shot down," Bobby countered.

"You shoulda asked him about it last night," Dean said. "Did he serve in Afghanistan, or something?"

"He's a Hunter," Bobby reminded them, "And Hunters tend to be pretty good at talkin' without sayin' much." He gulped at his coffee. "Ah, about a gallon more of this, and I'll be just fine."

"And we never see the guy," Dean was like a terrier with a rat, or a Belieber with a signed poster, "Where is he?"

"You heard Bobby," Sam rolled his eyes, "He's probably hanging on to the bed because otherwise he'll fall off, and praying for death! If they drank enough to get Bobby hung over, any other person should be nine-tenths of the way to clinically dead."

"He's missing two joints from the little finger of his left hand," Dean said.

"The guy's a Hunter!" Sam huffed at his brother, "Jesus, Dean, how many scars are we carrying each? Look at Ronnie, for Christ's sake! He's gotta be, what, about fifty? To make it to that age and still be Hunting, and all he's lost is two-thirds of a little finger, he's gotta be damned good."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "How do you get to that age Huntin', without losing any more than a coupla finger joints? Plus, he says he can kick Ronnie's ass," Dean muttered, "And she does what he tells her."

"Is that what this is about?" Bobby muttered, "You got a burr under your saddle because there's some guy she respects? Is this some alpha-male thing?" He peered slyly at Dean. "Because he stepped in when that spirit came after you, then took charge and tended both of you?"

Dean gave him an eloquent glower, which clearly described his belief that he was supposed to be the one who looked after his little brother.

"Oh, yeah," Bobby chortled, "Mr I'm In Charge And I'm In Control don't like the fact that somebody else had to cover his ass…"

"Come on, bro, you've heard her," Sam reminded him, "He's practically her big brother. He's family to her, the way Bobby is to us. Watch her face next time she talks about him."

"Besides which, Jimi and Joni like him," Bobby said, as if that settled everything. "If there was the slightest bit o' weird about him, they'd pick it up before you did." He peered into his coffee mug, then thrust it at Dean. "Make yourself useful, boy."

"Sure thing," Dean's face rearranged itself into a smirk, "Then you gotta rest up, old man," Dean grinned, "Because tonight, we celebrate Andrew's last night as a free man!"

"He's really not goin' for it," Sam cautioned.

"Oh, come on," Dean scoffed, "It'll be good for him to do some Man Time, before he makes the worst mistake of his life and becomes domesticated..."

"He's getting married, Dean," Sam protested, "He's not going into domestic servitude!"

"He might as well," shrugged Dean, "That's how it works, first, you get married, then, you open the presents, then, you get one of the empty boxes, then you cut your balls off, and put them in the box, and give them to your wife..."

"You are so full of shit," Sam muttered with a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean).

"It'll be good for you to do some Man Time too, Francis," Dean pronounced authoritatively, "And maybe if there's any head-shaving to be done, you can stand in for the groom..."

"I guess at least if you attack my hair, I'll come out looking faaaaabulous," sighed Sam, "Because, as Mrs Jaeger will be quick to tell you, gay men have a great eye for that sort of thing..."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Knock it off, idjits!" commanded Bobby. "Or at least go pull each other's pigtails outside."

"You want us to bring you some milk and cookies later, after you've had your nap?" simpered Dean. Bobby slapped him upside the head.

"What I want is some peace and quiet," he grumbled.

"Think I'll head back to Doc Molloy's journals," said Sam. "What about you, bro?"

"I got preparations to make for tonight," Dean beamed.

Sam sighed. "Should I be worried?"

"Nope, not at all," Dean assured him, "It'll be totally awesome!"

Later, as he sat in the reading room, making his way through another journal, Sam heard the irate shout from the room he was sharing with his brother.

"Sam? Sam! Come and fix this! There's a damned password on the laptop!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

If Ronnie was in a thoughtful mood, nobody remarked on it; surely it was normal for a bride to be somewhat preoccupied before her big day. The only one who questioned her was Andrew.

"Are you okay with this?" he asked, as his brother and two buddies yelled "Andreas!" in their best Great Aunts impersonations.

"Of course!" she told him, smiling up at him, "Go and have fun! You're supposed to run wild with your mates beforehand. I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

"What are you gonna do?" he asked. "Guys, knock it off!"

"I am going to have a bath, and maybe go out for a walk later tonight," she replied. "There may be chocolate consumption involved."

"Knock yourself out, party animal," he gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

"Don't let those bastards touch your hair," she cautioned, slapping him on the butt as he left.

"Ian promises to be my nanny," Andrew said, "So I couldn't be safer, even if you were there."

"Just don't come back with lipstick anywhere inappropriate!" she shouted after him, to the amusement of his brother, his friends and the Winchesters.

"Don't worry, we'll get him to change his pants before he comes back!" Dean called cheerfully.

"Piss off, you dickheads," she humphed dramatically, as they headed for the waiting cabs.

After waving them off, she returned to her room, where Joni and Jimi were snoozing together comfortably. She stretched luxuriantly, and smiled to herself. It was going to be a most enjoyable evening…

There was a sudden pounding at the door.

"Ronnie! Ronnieeeeeee!" called a voice she'd come to dread. "Open up, we're here!"

She shot a pleading look at the two dogs. "I don't suppose you'd be up for a bit of tearing somebody to pieces?" she asked. Jimi yawned, and Joni thumped her tail a few times, then they went back to their snoozing. "Man's best bloody friend, my arse," she muttered. "Traitorous mutts…"

She opened the door to see Becky, accompanied by Castiel. He was carrying a number of bags.

"Oh, gday Castiel," she said, taken aback, "What are you doing here?"

"Hello, Ronnie," the angel intoned seriously. "I am here with Becky to undertake a vital part of the rituals surrounding the solemnisation of your marriage."

Ronnie looked perplexed. "I think we've got everything sorted out," she told him, "We've done the hair trial, and the make-up trial, the less said about that the better – and the rehearsal you've done, so…"

"No, silly!" Becky chirped, positively bouncing into the room, "We're here for your bachelorette's night! We are going to have so much fun!"

* * *

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. No doubt, Castiel has done research as to the sorts of things that take place at hen's nights; what will he suggest?

Reviews are the Reviving Hot Beverages Brought To You When You Are Assailed By The Hangovers Of Life! (Or you have a headache after being whacked by the Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality.)


	19. Chapter 18

Aaaaargh! Aaaaaargh! My husband is watching the Australian Open tennis - I can't hear myself think for the squealing and grunting! It's like listening to a porn film! AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGHH! Why can't somebody debark these people? I want to strangle that Sharapova woman; I'm just waiting for somebody in the audience to stand up and shout 'Oh, for fuck's sake, just come already, and SHUT UP!' Thank Cas she's been knocked out, I couldn't take any more. Not without putting something through the screen.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

"Er, shouldn't you be with the, you know, the buck's night?" queried Ronnie doubtfully, eyeing Castiel's bags with the sort of suspicion usually exhibited by a politician eyeing a reporter's notebook.

"I have attended a buck's night celebration already," Castiel replied, "When Dean was under the influence of a Prince Charming curse. Besides which, as I am part of the bride's party, it would be appropriate for me to participate in the rituals surrounding the female preparations for the ceremony."

"He's been doing research!" Becky enthused, "So your batchelorette's night will be totally cool!"

"I have done some investigation into these events, as they pertain to a contemporary Western world culture," Castiel admitted modestly.

Ronnie sighed in the face of the angel's earnest curiosity about humanity. "That's... very kind of you, Castiel," she said, "To make time to do a hen's night for me." The angel gave them a small smile.

"So, what's first?" bubbled Becky.

The rituals surrounding a hen's, buckette's or batchelorette's night are varied," he began, "However, some overarching themes do emerge. Firstly, we need alcohol." From one of the bags, he drew a bottle. "A sparkling white wine from a particular region of France is deemed particularly appropriate." His face became disapproving. "In many instances, drinking to excess is undertaken, but given that you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow, I would not recommend that."

"Uh, yeah," Ronnie eyed the very expensive champagne. "Wow. I've heard of that. That's really good stuff. And we should, er, yeah, moderation. Very sensible."

"There is also frequently communal eating, of a meal, or confectionery treats," Castiel went on, "So I have procured some good quality chocolate, as this candy is deemed particularly appropriate to any gathering of women, be it for celebration or commiseration."

Ronnie's eyes lit up as he showed them the box of Swiss chocolate truffles. "Ohhhh," she breathed, "Are you allowed to have those? Because I think they might be the work of Lucifer, they are so sinful..."

"Chocolate was the invention of humanity, not my brother," Castiel assured her. As Becky squealed and inspected the box, he reached into another bag. "But before we can begin the consumption of these items, we must don these."

_I can handle this_, Ronnie told herself, even managing a smile as Becky helped her into the pink tutu and put the plastic tiara with small LEDs flashing the word **BRIDE** on her head, then donned her own tutu as Castiel struggled with his (it had clearly never been designed to be worn over a trenchcoat), _If all I have to do is wear a tutu and drink champagne, I can handle this..._

"This is great!" Becky twirled, making her tutu flap around her, then moved to assist the angel with his tutu. "I feel like a pretty princess!"

"I feel like a drink," Ronnie replied, as Castiel opened the champagne and poured drinks.

"To the bride," he intoned seriously, before knocking the whole thing back in one gulp.

"To the bride!" chirped Becky, taking a deep drink.

"To me," shrugged Ronnie, tasting hers. "Oh, wow, that is... dangerous. I can see how people could swill this stuff." She took another drink. "Let's open the chokkies!" she grinned. "Don't want to be drinking on an empty stomach!"

"We will," Castiel assured her, "But now, we must play our first game."

Ronnie spluttered on a mouthful of bubbles. "Game?" she echoed, wheezing.

"Yes," Castiel nodded earnestly, "They are a very important part of a batchelorette's night. They should be fun, inclusive, and preferably become more risqué as the party progresses." He handed a roll of toilet paper to Becky, who took it with a giggle of glee. "This first one is called, Make A Wedding Dress."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Drink up, dude," Dean gave Andrew a beaming smile, "Your world's about to end."

"Thank you for that encouraging thought," Andrew raised his beer, and took another drink. "But you can stop trying to get me drunk. You life isn't worth that much, because Ronnie will kill you if I puke on her. Then my mother will kill me. And we'll have two more unhappy ghosts." He surveyed the pool table. "You're a fucking shark, Winchester."

"Enjoying your last night as a free man?" asked Matt breezily, sauntering up to clap his brother on the shoulder.

"I'm not enjoying being told how miserable the rest of my life is gonna be," Andrew grumbled, lining up his shot.

"It's not too late, you know," his buddy Mark intoned ominously, "We could get you away from here, she'd never know."

"Change your name, give you a new identity," his other friend, Seth, took up the theme.

"Are you suggesting that you could set up some sort of witness protection program for unhappy grooms?" asked Sam.

"Totally," Mark nodded. "We'd owe it to our fellow man."

"Dicks before chicks," Seth added.

"Is there a reason you idjits are tryin' to frighten him?" chuckled Bobby, shaking his head.

"He'll be frightened enough tomorrow anyway," added Ian with a small grin.

"Speaking from experience?" asked Mark. "The experience of a happily married man.?"

Ian smiled sadly. "I was married, and happily," he told them quietly, "My wife passed away quite some time ago."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Mark had the grace to look contrite.

"At least he won't have her father frowning at him the whole time," Ian said ruefully, clearly not wanting to spoil the tone, "I swear, the back of my neck itched through the entire ceremony..."

"I hate you all," griped Andrew, taking his shot and failing to pot the ball. "Aren't you supposed to be offering me advice about how to be happily married?"

"Don't look at me!" yelped Mark, "She threw me out!" He looked thoughtful. "I suppose I could give you some ideas about what not to do..."

"Socks," Bobby announced. "Socks are important."

"Socks?" Dean repeated doubtfully.

"Socks," confirmed Bobby. "Don't leave 'em on the floor, put 'em in the laundry when they're dirty, and don't walk across the floor in 'em if they're actually muddy or wet – leave 'em outside the door with your boots. Get the sock thing right, you're halfway there."

"Socks, got it," Andrew didn't sound completely convinced.

"If she ever asks you, 'Does my ass look fat it this?' remember," cautioned Sam, "There's only one answer: I Want My Lawyer."

"Ass, lawyer," Andrew repeated. "Right."

"Don't use a pot from the kitchen to cast lead shot," stated Ian, "You will find yourself getting a tongue-lashing that you will never forget. Oh, and if you're butchering a hog, using the chamber pot her mother gave you for a wedding present as a ladle for the scalding will see you stuck in the doghouse for a fortnight..."

All the others laughed out loud.

"If any of you assholes give us a chamber pot as a wedding present, I will break it over your head," Andrew grumped, while Dean sank two more balls. "I don't wanna play this game any more," he whined, as Dean sank the black and grinned at him.

"We should go, then," Dean checked his watch, "There's another place down the street, a bar without a pool table in sight."

He was right; there were no pool tables at the next bar they hit.

But there were pole dancers.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"If I had to venture an opinion," Ronnie began, refilling her glass as she examined herself critically in the mirror, "I'd say I look like a cross between the Sydney Opera House, and Godzilla." She looked behind herself. "The train is very, er, original."

"I modelled it after a Stegosaur's tail," Castiel informed her, looking pleased with her critique.

"That was fun!" chirruped Becky, her tutu bouncing up and down as she did, "I could totally go into fashion designing! Bespoke wedding dresses! Totally individual! Totally amazing!"

"And totally flushable," noted Ronnie, as Jimi and Joni scooted a roll of toilet paper across the floor, bounding after it like puppies. "So, can we eat chocolate now?"

"Yes," answered Castiel, "While we play Pass The Parcel." He waved a hand; a large parcel of newspaper wrappings appeared in his hands, and a small angel holding a harp appeared at his elbow. "This is Ferumiel," he told them, "She will be providing the music."

"That's... great," managed Ronnie, as the young Herald gave her a shy wave.

"You may be pleased to know that there are chocolates in the parcel," Castiel confided, "Although you are not supposed to know that, but I thought you would be pleased."

"Awesome!" trilled Ronnie, sitting down next to Becky, "Lay it on us, Ferumiel!" The angel smiled, turned her back, and began to play her harp, stopping at random intervals.

Castiel was right – there were plenty of chocolate treats in the layers of newpaper.

They were carefully moulded to represent the intimate anatomy of male humans.

"Oh. Er," Ronnie stuttered, blushing as the first layer and treat fell to her. "That's... er, right."

"The proprietor of the shop was most helpful in assisting me to choose an array of prizes for the parcel," Castiel told her. "Those candies are very popular."

"I'll bet." She looked at Becky and Castiel's expectant faces. "Maybe if I just eat it with my eyes shut..."

_I can do this,_ she told herself, _I can do this, there's the champers, and it's chocolate after all, it's not so bad..._

The music stopped. She unwrapped another layer.

A pair of fluffy handcuffs dropped into her lap. She let out a little shriek.

"Oh, those are so cute!" burbled Becky, biting into her most recent chocolate dick with alarming enthusiasm, "Oh, what I'd give to get Sam alone with those..."

_If the middle of this parcel is a studded collar and a lead,_ Ronnie thought, _I will personally pluck his wings and turn him into a feather duster._

The final innermost layer of the parcel, which naturally came to her, did not contain a collar and lead.

However, it did contain something battery-powered.

"Wellwasn'tthatfun?!" she squeaked, shoving the box (which bore a lurid and detailed illustration of the contents) behind her, "ThankyouCastielandFerumiel!"

"I am glad that you found it amusing," the Sheriff of Heaven smiled in satisfaction as Ferumiel curtseyed and vanished.

"This is great!" Becky clapped her hands and refilled her glass, then retrieved the box from behind Ronnie to inspect it curiously. "Are we going to play any more games, Castiel?"

"The playing of games is an important part of the social bonding activities at these occasions," Castiel told them, "But there are other traditions that must be observed also."

"Yes!" Ronnie nodded eagerly, "Other traditions! Traditions that don't have B&D overtones! Or batteries! Or realistic textured finish..."

"Indeed," agreed Castiel. He appeared to concentrate for a moment. "For our next batchelorette's activity, I have enlisted the help of one of my brothers..."

"Please tell me he isn't going to jump out of a cake," pleaded Ronnie.

"He is not," Castiel assured her.

Another angel appeared. Both women gawped.

"Uh," Ronnie began hesitantly, "Ferumiel was wearing a robe..."

"Ferumiel joined us to play music," Castiel said, "Garaniel is not here to play music – he is here to dance to music." A thumping bass-driven beat began to play, and the lights dimmed.

Garaniel was not wearing a robe.

Garaniel was wearing a vessel.

Which was wearing an outfit that involved a lot of velcro.

Garaniel was wearing a male stripper.

* * *

Castiel researched and attended Dean's 'buck's night' in Prince Charming, which is how he comes to know about duct tape.

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	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

"I am so putting this on YouTube," leered Matt, watching his brother blush furiously whilst one of the pole-dancers, a young lady wearing a smile, a feather boa, and apparently not much more than a handful of sequins, performed a lap dance for him.

"I am going to kill you," muttered Andrew, as Dean and his accomplices clapped and cheered, "I am going to kill you all. It will not be quick, it will not be clean..."

"Be grateful we didn't get you the double act," Dean's eyebrows waggled lewdly as the young lady smiled encouragingly and tickled Andrew's nose with her feather boa. "Hey, be gentle with him, he's getting married tomorrow."

"Who said the fine art of burlesque was dead?" chuckled Bobby, as the dancer briefly flicked her boa at him. "You watch yourself there, missy, I'm just about old enough to be your grand-daddy."

"What I don't understand," mused Sam, "Is how those sequins stay on."

"Latex adhesive, probably," Ian told him.

"You like it, Sammy?" Dean asked cheerfully. "Why don't we get you a dance, and you can ask her yourself?"

"Jerk," mumbled Sam, flushing.

"Ungrateful brat. Now, Andrew here," Dean clapped his unfortunate victim on the shoulder, "He's enjoyin' the show. You like the look? Ronnie could go and get it done, you know. It's called vagazzling – there was this girl, about six months ago, and she had this pattern like a rainbow coming out of her..."

Andrew let out a sad little noise, trapped between a lap dancer and one of Dean Winchester's Chicks I Have Banged stories, and envied his bride-to-be her nice, quiet night in.

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Becky whooped and cheered, and enthusiastically took a turn to dirty-dance with the extremely buff young vessel who had been pressed into service for the occasion. Jimi and Joni woofed happily, tails waving, and jumped around, happy to join in the fun. Ronnie sat and watched with a dazed expression. A vest landed in her lap. She brushed it away idly.

"This might seem like an odd question," she said to Castiel, "But how exactly does an angel know how to, you know," she waved a hand uncertainly, "Bump and grind?"

"The man who agreed to be Garaniel's vessel works as a male revue artist," Castiel informed her, "And has had much practice at this sort of performance."

"Oh. Oh. That's, er..." words failed her. "Yes. He is, um, practised, isn't he? Hell's bells, and flexible, too..."

"He's so hot!" squeed Becky, prodding experimentally at a bicep before going back to her lambada. "Oh, that's so firm! I could close my eyes, and pretend this is Sam..."

There was a ripping of velcro, and a pair of pants sailed through the air to land at Ronnie's feet.

"And he didn't even lose time with the beat," she noted idly, as Becky squeed again. "That's talent."

"I have also procured a number of bank notes," Castiel told her, "Should you wish to give him tips."

"Tips?" Ronnie's eyes bugged, "As in, tucking notes into his shorts?"

"Not his shorts."

Becky whooped as a pair of shorts landed at Ronnie's feet.

"That man," she said woodenly, "That man is wearing a... a... change purse..."

"Gimme those bills, Castiel!" shrieked Becky.

Ronnie gulped down more champagne. "Well, the bridesmaid is supposed to do little chores for the bride," she said brightly, "So, yeah, just give Becky the bills, and she can tuck them into his, his, his..."

With a smile that had made thousands of women scream or swoon, Garamiel the Stripping Angel performed a lithe backflip, and slingshotted a scrap of fabric to her. She caught it before it hit her in the face.

"Ah," went Ronnie, apparently gone clear through 'WTF?' and out the other side, "That must be one of those things they call a C-string." She cocked her head. "How do you reckon those sequins stay there?"

"By the use of a latex-based skin-safe adhesive," Garamiel told her, "First of all, the hair is removed by waxing, and then a design of sequins is set out on a template..."

"Fascinating," she squeaked, picking up the bottle of champagne, reaching for her glass, then putting it down and necking the bottle.

"I WANNA LICK THEM OFF!" howled Becky, grinning from ear to ear.

"You will do no such thing," Castiel told her firmly.

"That's right!" Ronnie nodded furiously, "You listen to him, he's an Angel of the Lord!"

"Indeed," Castiel gave Becky his most authoritative stare. "Not until Ronnie has had her lap dance."

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"You enjoyed it," Mark insisted.

"It was embarrassing," Andrew mumbled.

"It was hot," grinned Matt, "Almost worth getting hitched for."

"I'd have been happy to get hitched without it," Andrew protested.

"But _we_ wouldn't be happy for you to get hitched without it," countered Dean, leading the way to another venue.

"If there's more pole dancing in here..." began Andrew.

"We'll be really happy!" chirped Seth.

"Well, yeah, there's pole dancing," admitted Dean, as they entered the darkened entrance and approached the desk, "But we're not here for that."

"Good," humphed Andrew.

It turned out they were there for the Jell-O wrestling.

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_Nicotinic acetylcholine receptors. _

The snippet of information, dredged up from some science lesson at high school long ago, popped into Ronnie's head somewhere after Garamiel's performance, between the games of Pass The Cucumber and Pin The Hose On The Fireman (which came to an end when the dogs got hold of the 'hose' and began to have a tug-of-war game with it).

_You overstimulate them, and they just shut down, and stop functioning. Then you just go all paralysed and floppy. That's me. I am a nicotinic acetylcholine receptor in the brain of life._

She didn't realise that she was gnawing on the box of chocolates until Castiel broke into her thoughts by announcing that it was time for their next activity.

"Does it involve more drinking?" she asked hopefully.

"Usually, yes," Castiel answered.

"Beaut," she grunted, reaching for the bottle again.

"Cool!" whooped Becky, clearly a happy courtier to Lord Bacchus. "Will there be more hot guys?"

"No," Castiel said, "Just us. Did you bring bathing suits with you? This next activity often takes place sitting in a hot tub..."

"Let's just... do without the hot tub, shall we?" said Ronnie. "We can, er, pretend we have a hot tub! But we'll stick with the booze."

"Very well." Castiel seated himself on the small sofa, and picked up his drink. "We will now complain to each other about the men in our lives, over drinks and chocolate." Gently prising the box from Ronnie's nerveless hands, he opened it, and Becky fell upon the treats with a cry of happiness. "I shall go first. I shall complain about Dean." He cleared his throat. "I dislike the way Dean blasphemes, taking my Father's name in vain. Nor do I like the way he bellows 'Personal Space' at me. Furthermore, he chews with his mouth open, drinks to excess, and fornicates rampantly and unrepentantly..."

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"I'm impressed," Bobby admitted, "Organisin' that at such short notice, credit where it's due."

"Yeah," Matt grinned, "Kudos, man."

"Love your work," agreed Mark.

"How the hell do I explain this?" complained Andrew, picking an orange glob out of his hair, "I'll never be able to look at orange Jell-O again!"

"Or next time you do," Dean's eyebrows waggled as lewdly as the wrestlers had done, "You'll think about something other than eating it."

"You can't put that on YouTube," Andrew told his brother, "If Ronnie sees it, I'll never hear the end of it. God, I hope this stuff washes out."

"Me too," griped Sam, who was having similar gelatinous tonsorial contamination difficulties.

"Things have certainly moved on since my buck's night," observed Bobby.

"It's the twenty-first century," shrugged Ian.

"Can we just get back to the guest house?" asked Andrew. "If I'm going to be teased mercilessly by my wife-to-be, I might as well get it over and done with. She's gonna laugh until she pukes."

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"And the socks thing," Ronnie added, "Why can't he put his socks in the laundry? Why do they have to end up on the floor? They're not that heavy – why can't he pick them up? The hamper is right there! And how do you get a bloke to understand that, if your feet have gotten so mucky that your socks are wet and muddy too, you have to take them off as well before you walk across the floor!" She finished her champagne.

"Dean does the same thing," Castiel informed them. "Sam has tried to educate him; perhaps once you are married, you will have more success." He stood up. "That concludes the activities for your batchelorette's night," he announced. "I hope you have enjoyed yourself."

"It's been awesome!" enthused Becky, "It's been the best batchelorette's night ever!"

"What? Oh. Oh. Yes. Yes," Ronnie stood up, "It has been... truly memorable. I think I can safely say that no other bride-to-be has ever had one like it. It was truly... unique. And unforgettable. Though I will try," she added under her breath.

Castiel seemed pleased. "I am glad," he said, "I will see you tomorrow, to prepare for your wedding." He looked helpful. "I can procure some of the chicken fillets that Becky mentioned..."

"No!" yelped Ronnie. "Look, I don't need 'em, the dress has been fitted to me..."

"They'll give you a bit of extra lift," insisted Becky.

"Becky, the last time he offered to get me 'chicken fillets', he brought actual chicken fillets!" Ronnie said. "Actual chicken meat! Actual pieces of actual dead chicken! Do not mention chicken fillets!"

"Very well. Goodbye." With a flap, he disappeared.

Ronnie let out a groan. "Oh, crap," she moaned, "That's it, I am never, ever, ever getting divorced after this, because the thought of there being even the slightest, most vanishingly tiny possibility of ever doing this again is just..."

She broke off, with a sharp intake of breath.

"Ronnie? Are you okay?" asked Becky.

"Yeah." Slowly, a smile crept across Ronnie's face, as she stretched luxuriantly, "Just a disturbance in the Force." She whuffed to Joni, who trotted to her side. "I might go for a walk. See that Jimi goes straight back to Dean, would you?"

"Oh, er, sure," replied Becky, heading out of the room they'd been sharing, with Jimi beside her. "Hey, don't worry, big guy," she told the dog, as he whined uncertainly, "They'll be back soon, we can go downstairs and wait – maybe Sam will have had a bit to drink, and he'll have loosened up a bit." She smiled, and turned back to the door. "Hey, maybe I can borrow those fluffy handcuffs. Ronnie!" She pushed the door open, "Hey, can I borrow..."

The window was open, and the room was empty.

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"If anybody wants a nightcap, I got a bottle of very good single malt," Ian offered.

"No way," Sam said firmly, "We gotta be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow."

"Aw, Moooooooom!" whined Mark.

"He's got a point, children," stated Bobby, "We should all hit the hay."

"Some of us should hit the shower," grumbled Andrew, finding another piece of Jell-O.

"See you tomorrow!" enthused Mark and Seth, heading for their rooms.

"Or we'll come looking!" trilled Andrew's brother, heading for his own bed.

Andrew sighed. "He's my little brother," he sounded bewildered, "How is that I want to look out for him and kill him at the same time?"

"I feel your pain," sighed Dean.

"Jerk," muttered Sam. "Oh, hey, look," he brightened up like a child suddenly distracted by a new toy, "They got the new displays set up!" He gazed down at the array of Doctor Malloy's surgical instruments. "Wow," he breathed, "They look kinda creepy. What the hell is that?"

Ian joined him. "It's called a bistoury cache," he said, "For making incisions inside the body, through a smaller outer incision."

"What's that one?" Sam pointed.

"A bullet probe," Ian answered grimly, "Although usually, if shot went in deep enough to need the full length, the patient was screwed."

"Look at this one," said Bobby, indicating the small hooks on the back of the case. "Must be some photos goin' up there. And they got a jar of, what are those, musket balls? Minié balls? Says here, Doctor Molloy kept collections of the ones he removed from patients...""

Ian's head shot up. "What? The actual rounds? Show me..."

"Hi guys!" They were interrupted when Jimi came thundering down the stairs with Becky following. She was wearing a pink tutu, and a huge grin. "Did you have a good time?"

"Awesome," grinned Dean.

"Er, is there a reason you're wearin' a tutu?" asked Bobby.

"Oh, we just had the most fantastic batchelorette's night, thanks to Castiel!" she gushed, bouncing over the Sam and snuggling up to his arm. "How much have you had to drink, Sam?"

"A _what_?... with _Cas_...?" the Winchesters and Bobby stared at her

"Oh, God," Andrew sounded worried, "I'd better go and see if she's okay..."

"She's not there," Becky told him, squeezing Sam's arm. "She just went out for a walk."

"At this hour?" queried Bobby.

"Yeah," shrugged Becky, "She said there was a disturbance in the Force, then she..."

Becky let out a little shriek as Ian swore, and Andrew grabbed her. "What did she say?" he demanded. "A disturbance in the Force? Were those her exact words?"

"Yeah," Becky replied, gazing into Andrew's worried face, "She said, there's a disturbance in the Force, then..."

Andrew turned on his heel, and shot back out the door at a dead run, disappearing into the dark.

"Andrew!" Ian went to the door, and called after him anxiously. "ANDREW!" He swore a blue streak, and turned back to the others. "I gotta go after him," he said, "He may need help."

"Ian, what the hell...?" Bobby began, but Ronnie's buddy was gone, too.

"Well, that escalated quickly," commented Dean.

Sam blinked. "Does anybody have any idea what the fuck just happened?"

Bobby shook his head. "Idjits," he muttered, "The world's goin' to idjitry in a handcart." He looked at the open door. "Maybe we should follow them," he mused, "Seems like Ian thinks maybe Andrew could use some back-up, whatever's goin' on..."

"He's not the one who needs back-up!" warbled a voice behind them. Bobby, Sam and Dean spun around, scowling, as Jimi started to growl. The King of Hell stood, looking worried, wringing his hands in anxiety.

"Crowley!" Bobby spat, "What the fuck are you doin' here!"

"Trying to stop something terrible!" Crowley squawked, "Your furry friend Andrew is about to run into a disaster!"

"What the hell are you talkin' about, asshat?" snapped Bobby.

Crowley told them what he'd told Ronnie a few days earlier.

"_They_ are _here_?" Bobby and the Winchesters gaped at him. "Here? Now? Why? _How_?"

"That's not important!" Crowley yipped, "We have to get there before he does!"

"Hang on, hang on," Sam cut in, "Don't we want Andrew to get there? He's the only one who's likely to be able to stop Ronnie from tearin' her Dad to shreds, if she's angry enough."

"It's not that simple, Bullwinkle," snapped Crowley, "We have to go, and now!"

"I'm gettin' too old for this shit," grumbled Bobby, "All right then, Your Infernal Idjitness, let's go stop this disaster."

"What should I do?" asked Becky.

"Stay here, and cover for us!" Sam told her. "And get rid of those fluffy..._ things_, you weirdo!"

* * *

Le sigh - it all had to go pear-shaped, didn't it? I blame Crowley.

Reviews are the Nicotinic Agonist In The Brain Of Life!

...no?

Reviews are the Unexpectedly Entertaining Wrestling In The Jell-O Pool Of Life!

...still no?

Reviews are the Joke Fluffy Handcuffs At The Late Night Encounter With The Winchester Of Your Choice In The Guest House Of Life!

You depraved beldames.


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